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TRANSACTIONS

OP THE

MOYAIL imiSH ACABEMir.

VOL. XII.

KT.,

^. <i:i^, /^

THE

TRANSACTIONS

OP THE

ROYAL IRISH ACADEMY.

VOL. XII.

DUBLIN: '

PRINTEKS TO THE ROYAL IRISH ACADEMT.

1815.

THE ACADEMY desire it to be under stoody that, as a

body, they are not answerable for any opinion, representation of

facts, or train of reasoning, which may appear in the following

Papers. The authors of the, several essays are alp?ie responsible

for their contents.

ERRATil.

SCIENCE.

I'age Line.

48 1 Dele full point after p

11 Dele p. after 19" ,28
78 _ 5 Read He derives by, &p.
S8 — 11 ror5=:ireadi=l

POLITE LITERATURE.
(51—2 After the word :press add a comma, and dele tUe
comma after the wonl everi/

oq 11 For non una read nulla

88—1 For from meaning read from the meaning
«9 — 27 (Last line of the poetry )/or Far read Ian
97 — 8 For these pursuits ; read their pursuits ;
11 For to rectify read to purify.

DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER.

In Science-Tho Water Spout to be placed opposite page S9-
ll-__-l>late, relative to Uack Horizon Glass opposite S-

CONTENTS.

SCIENCE.

Page

I. AN Explanation of the Method of Adjustment of the

JRac.k Horizon Glass of Hadleys Quadrant, by two
near objects; also a Description of a Projected Ad-
dition to the Quadrant for refecting that Adjustment,
according to the Method of Mr. Blair. By the Rev.
James Little. - - .'3

II. Two proofs of the Binomial Theorem^ by the Rev.

Samuel Vince, A. M. F. R. S. Flumian Professor of
Astronomy and Experimental Philosophy, in the Uni-
versity of Cambridge. — Communicated by the Rev. J.
Brinkley - - 31

III. On certain Properties of Numbers, by the Rev. Samuel
Vince, A. M. F. R. S. and Plumian Professor of As-
stronojny in the University of Cambridge. — Communi-
cated by the Rev. J. Brinkley - 31

IV. An Account of a very remarkable Water Spout, which
appeared at Ramsgate, July Kith, 1810, — by the Rev,
S. Vince, A. M. F. R. S. Plumian Professor of Astro-
nonu) in the University of Cambridge. Communicated

by the Rev. J. Brinkley - - -29

b . . '

/ IV

Pag«5

V. An Account of Observations made at the Observatory
of Trinity College, Dublin, zmth an Astronomical
Circle^ eight feet in diameter, which appear to point

out an Annual Parallax in certain fixed Stars.

Also a Catalogue of l^orth Polar distances of forty -
seven principal fixed Stars, from recent observations,
and a comparison thereof with those of the same Stars,
obtained by other Instruments, and by the same InstrU'
ment, at a former period. By John Brinkley, JJ. D.
M. R. I. A. F. R. S. and Andrews' Professor of As-
tronomy in the University of Dublin - *S5

VI. Analytical Investigations respecting Astronomical Re-
fractions, and the application thereof to the formation
of convenient Tables, together with the results of ob-
servations of Circumpolar Stars, tending to illustrate
the Theory of Refractions. By John Brinkley, D. D.
M. R. I. A. F. R. S. and Andi-ews' Professor of As-
tronomy in the Univcrify of Dublin - 77

VII. Appendix to the Account of Observations tnade at the
Observatory of Trinity College, Dublin, which appear
to point out an Annual Parallax in certain fixed Stars,
i}c. ^-c. By the Rev. J. Brinkley, D. D. F. R. S.
M. R. I. A. and Andrews' Professor of Astronomy in

the University of Dublin - J19

* The folio of this page, and the seven subsequent ones, are, by an error of the
press, duplicates of the folios of the eight preceding pngcs.

POLITE LITERATURE.

Page

I. AN Essay on the subject proposed by the Royal Irish Aca-

demyy viz. " Whether, and how far, the Pursuits of
Scientific and Polite Literature, assist, or obstruct
each other." A prize Essay. By William Phelan,
Esq. A. B. T. C. D. - - 3

II. An Essay on the subject proposed by the Royal Irish

Academy viz. " on the Influence of Fictitious History
on Modern Manners." A prize Essay. By Miss Har-
riet Kiernan - - 61

III. An Essay on the question proposed by the Royal Irish
Academy, viz. " on the Influence of Habit, considered
in conjunction with the Love of Novelty." A prize
Essay. By Andrew Carmichael, Esq. M. R. I. A. 99

IV. An Essay on the Invention of Alphabetic Wi'iting.

By Andrew Carmichael, Esq. M. R. I. A. 168

SCIENCE.

VOL. xir.

'■--So

' .wDiVju. AN EXPLANATION

OF THE METHOD OF ADJUSTMENT

OF THE
OF

HADLEY'S QUADRANT,

BY TWO NEAR OBJECTS :

^I'P Ui..
ALSO A DESCRIPTION

OF A PROJECTED ADDITION TO THE QUADRANT^.,' /

50H REFLECTING THAT ADJUSTMENT ACCOKDING TO THE METHOD OF

MR. BLATR,,

BY THE REV. JAMES LITTLE.

■^ca^^id^O^^^

,Rcad, January 28th, 1811.

How desirable as well as difficult it is, to adjust on every
occasion the Back Horizon Glass of Hadley's Quadrant with
necessary precision, is declared by the many different con-
trivances which have been suggested for that purpose ; and
this I hope will procure an indulgent approbation of the pre-^
sent, as well as the future, attempts that may be made for
that end, till it shall be accomplished in every manner de-
sirable. The mode of its adjustment, by two near objects,,
has been described by the late Rev. Mr. Ludlam in his trea-
tise on the quadrant ; and it may b}' this be accurately per-
formed, if executed with due and intelligent attention to the.
» B 2

requisite circumstances : but as neither Mr. Ludlam, nor
any other person that I know, has explained the grounds of
the directions he has given ; and as these directions will pro-
bably be applied in an unskilful and negligent manner, un-
less it be generally understood and impressed of what im-
portance they are : as moreover this is the method, at least
the most generally practicable, of adjusting the back hor".
glass, as well as of trying the accuracy of the construc-
tion of the quadrant for effectiug it in Mr. Blair's method ;
and is also subservient to the contrivance hereafter men-
tioned for accomplishing it in the same Avay ; it is necessary,
before I proceed to the description of it, to state the prin-
ciples on which Mr. Ludlams judicious instructions are
founded.

He directs that the back horizon glass may be adjusted at
i-ight angles to the index glass, by the means of two near
objects, such as two lines sustaining plummets in water,
or two candles *, &c. lying in the plane of the quadrant
placed horizontal, and in a line joining the objects equidist-
ant from the quad'.; one of them being before, and the
other behind the observer; by reversing the instrument by
'turning it half round in its own plane, and shifting its posi-
tion laterally on cither sidc^ till the images of the two objects
are seen, through the back sight vane, to coincide, when
each of them alternately is viewed by the observer, by di-

• WTien plummets are used, they must bo placed at opposite doors or windows against
the light of the sky: and if candles be employed, their light should he seen tlirough a
small slit in a screen placed before each.

a72

J.l£. del.

SinJitfrV-

^<:.:cA.r

Fi^. S

Al/Ai

\f>

9 •

k \s

-^-^

■^

9lt'

rect vision after a half turn of the instrument; the index
fixed at 0, and the back horizon glass shifted, till the images
are brought to coincide, whichsoever of them be viewed
directly. The quadrant is to be supported on a moveable
stand, on the points of two erected pins fixed on the stand,
inserted into two conical holes made in the middle of the
heads of the screw pins in the back of the instrument, which
fasten the central pins supporting the index and the back
horizon glass j the placing the respective glasses alternately
on these points, in the manner represented in fig. ]., will
veveree the quadrant, by giving it just a semicircular mo-
tion in its own plane. The manner of performing this ad-
justment has been fully described b}' Mr. Liicllam, to whom
I refer; but as I have seen no demonstration of its accuracy,
1 give the following proof of it ; assuming the established
optical principles.

Let A P Q (fig. 1.), be the octant, fixed on two points
^mder the centres of the index glass A, and the back hori-
zon glass B, or any two other fixed points ; and let C and c
be the two candles or objects by which the glass B is to be
adjusted. The image of the object C will be seen by the
eye E, looking through the sight vane, coincident with the
object c, when the stand of the quadrant is properly placed,
by the ray E B, parallel to A C, if the glasses are at right
angles. Let the quadrant now be turned half round, and
placed on the points in the position a p q ; and if the back
horizon glass is properly adjusted, then the eye -looking

6 *^; "

' through the vane at e, will see the reflected image of tiie
object c coincident with the object C : because in these dif-
ferent positions of the quadrant, the incident rays become
the reflected ones, and vice versa ; and the index glass in the
2ad position a, will be parallel to the same, as it was in the
1st position A ; as also the horizon glass b to B.

But if the speculums A and B were not rightly adjusted
at right angles to each other, the reflected ray B E \a the
former position of the quadrant would not he parallel to the
incident ray C A, but these rays would make an angle,
equal, (suppose) to £ B M (or E B N) ; and consequently
this B M (or B NJ is the reflected ray, by which, and in
the direction of which, the image of the object C is seen :
then the object c must be placed at m (or n) in order to coin-
cide with the image of C, which appears only in the direc-
tion of M B (or N S), f,et them coincide in m ; and
let the quadrant no^v be turned half round, and put into
the position a p q ; in which the glasses a and A, and b and
B are parallel : the angle of incidence is now one half of the
angle m a d greater than half c a A or CAB by the angle
c a m; so that the reflected ray ad will fall without the angle
cab', and will therefore either fall quite without the hori-
zon glass b, or at least at a distance from its centre : in the
former case the image of c would not be seen by the eye at
c at all, unless the index glass were so long, and the object
c so near, that a ray in g could fall on it in an angle so
much less than the half of /« a d, as that the reflected ray

g h would fall on the glass b, and be again reflected to the
eye at e.*

But if the rays forming the ijnage are reflected from the
middle part only of the mirrors, the image of m orn could
not be seen to coincide with C by the eye at e ; for if the
incident ray were different from c «, as suppose m a, the re-

* Int)rder to understand the theory of the reflection of the rays forming the image
seen in the back horizon glass, the following circumstances are to be considered :

1st, Because the speculum b is parallel to B, whatever inclination B has, which di"
verts the image of the object C from the point c to m, the same inclination 6 also has,
tending to divert the image of c to o, let the reflected rays g b or ad fall where they
will on the speculum, or with whatever inclination.

2d, If the mirrors were at right angles, the rays m a, m g would be reflected from
the mirror b, in a direction parallel to themselves, i. e. the ray m a falling on the point
d ill the mirror ft, would be reflected in d o parallel to m a; and the ray m g falling on
h, in the mirror b, would be reflected in h i parallel to m g : but when the mirrors are
inclined to each 6ther, the rays d o , and h i will decline from such parallelism in an
angle equal to c am double the inclination of the mirrors.

3d, When the angle cam exceeds the angle a m g subtended by half the length of
the mirror a, by a difference equal to, or exceeding the angle, subtended by half the
length of the horizon glass at the middle of the index glass ; all the rays reflected from
the latter will fall without the horizon glass, and not be reflected by it ; but when the
angle c a m is less than this, some of the rays incident on the index mirror a, will fall
from it on the mirror b, and be again reflected : and since the object c or m is so near
that there is a considerable diffierence in the incidences of the rays diverging from it on
the mirror a, from the point a to g, (the greatest difi'ereuce equal to a »i g), and the
same in the reflections from the mirror 6, the image of the object c placed at m, may be
seen in different places by some of the rays diverging from this mirror.

4th, The diffierence of the incidences of the jays m a and mg is that of their reflec-
tions in a d and g h ; and the difference of the incidei»ces of a d and g h will be that of
their reflections from the mirror b ; and the angular motion of the speculum b will be
half of either these or those, in order to its reflecting one of these rays in the same di-
rection in which the other liad been reflected.

fleeted raj would be difFerent from a h', i. e. it would not fall
on the speculum in the point b, nor consequently be seen<
(by the eye at e), to coincide with C ; but would fall without
a b as at d, and would be reflected in do; in which direc-
tion the image would be seen, and would be painted in the
bottom of the eye, in a different place from that of the di-
rect image of C; so that these images would be divaricated ;
and it would be necessary to make them unite, by givino-
such a motion to the little mirror, as would have made the
first reflected ray B E parallel to the incident ray C A , by
which the first image would be transferred from vi to c, and
the second image from o to the eye at e.

In the same manner it may be shewn, that if the second
reflected ray tended to any point N on the other side of the
line B E, from an inclination of the speculum B on the
other side, there would be a divarication of the images to
the eye at e, till such inclination of the glass was removed.
It also appears that the objects C and c, by which the ad-
justment is made, may be placed very near the instrument,
provided the reflection be made from the middle part only
of the glasses, especially of the index-glass, the incidence
of rays being difFerent in different parts of it; for unless the
sight vane or eye hole for the little mirror, be large, so as
that tiie eye could shift across the vane the axis of vision,
which ought to be fixed, or the hole be very near the mirror;
the image, if reflected from a part of it distant from the
middle, would yet not appear coincident with the object seen

9 .

directly through the middle, so as to prevent the separation
of the images ; because when the rays which form both
imafes, cross one another, and proceed in different direc-
tions, though they should even cross in the same point in the
mirror, yet they will penetrate the eye diverging, and form
different images on the retina. But if the image may be
seen by reflection from any part of the index-glass a, the
angle of incidence of a ray m g, (of the near object c re-
moved to m,) falling on that glass at a point g distant from
its middle point a, will be less than that of a ray incident on
the point a, by the angle a m g: (for if the line a g were
produced, the external angle at g would be equal to the
angle at a and also to a m g together ; and therefore as much
as the external angle at g is encreased above that at a, as
falling toward a perpendicular from m to the line ag (El. 1. 32.
cor.) the internal one, or the angle made with the mirror, is
diminished ;) but if the incidences on a and g were equal, the
reflections would be so too ; i. e. both m a and m g, and
also ad and gh would be parallel ; which is the case when the
object is very remote, the angle a m g then vanishing. Also
since by reflection from any number of plane mirrors, the
direction of the rays is changed, but not their inclination to
each other, the ang. am g made by the rays incident on the
index-glass, will be likewise the measure of their divergence
reflected from the horizon glass. * If therefore the glasses

* The angle b a d h equal to c a m, and the angle made by e J and o d is equal
to either ; and au angular motion of the speculum 6 equal to half of any of these

VOL. XII. C

are uncovered, the eye may see the image of w, (by rays in*-
cident on a and g in the mirror a, and on d and h in the
mirror 6,) in different places, whose angular distance is amg;
and if the sight vane or hole at e be of any breadth, the
second reflected image may be seen in two extreme places,
whose distance will be as near to that anglie as the breadth of
the vane and of the horizon glass will allow, and it may be
also seen coincident with the direct image C, because the
unsilvered part of the glass b extends- across its whole
breadth, so that in whatever part of it the reflected image
appears, the sight may be directed through that part to C. *

angles would make do issue parallel to be;- But if tHe speculums were uncovered, thedif.
ference only of the angles amg and cam would require to be corrected by an angular
motion of the speculum b,. which would be half of this difference ; and this being done
the image of m would be seen in the direction ft e by the ray m g, wliile the same image'
would be visible at an angular distance equal to a m g, by the ray m a; so that the
image of c or m might be- seen in different places under the same inclination of the
glasses; i. e. the adjustment would be uncertain..

* To shew that what is here stated is applicable to observations made with the quadrant,
let d (fig, 2.) be a luminous body, from which light falls on the mirror a b with an angle
of incidence «f/ e : its image will be visible to an eye at e in the direction e/, when
the angle efc is equal to c/rf; Let the mirror be turned on its axis/, carrying the
perpendicular/ c with it : when this has arrived to the position/g-, the angle of incidence
will be encreased hy cfg; and the angle of reflection must be augmented by the same,
so as now to be equal to dfg: if therefore the image is to be seen still in the point /i
and no other point in the speculum, the eye must be placedat A ; when g-/A will be
equal to g f d; in which case the angle efh will be equal to twice tjie angular motion
af i of the speculum, or of its perpendicular c/, which is the same ; i. e. ef h will be equal
to twice cfg. If the eye may be shifted, from the place h to a different place, as n,
by looking through a hole or vane, whose breadth is equal to the interval h n, the imag»^
of the object d may be seen by reflection from the mirror i A: in a different place or di-

From this it appears, that to adjust the horizon glass pro-
perly by two near objects, the face of both mirrors should be
covered, except the middle parts only, or means must be
used to view the images by those rays only, which are inci-
dent on the middle of both mirrors But if according to Mr.
Ludlam's direction, the object C be seen directly through
the middle of the glass ft, and if the image of no other part
of the glass a, but its middle part also, can be seen by re-
flection from the middle of the mirror b; then no rays inci-
dent on any other part g of the index glass could be seen
to coincide with the object C. Suppose this to be effected
as Mr. Ludlam directs, by covering the index glass with a
piece of card-paper, equal in size to itself, and lying close to
it, having a black line marked on the middle perpendicular to
the plane of the instrument : and the whole card to be made
visible in the horizon glass h, and the black line to appear in

rectioB n m, visible iu the mirror not in the place/, but in m, by a ray dm, reflected in
w» n, making an angle with the former line of vision /A equal to the angle/ rf in ; and as
the eye shifts along the interval h n, carrying with it the axis of vision through the dif-
ferent points in that interval, tlie line of direction of the image, or its visible place will
also shift through the interval/ m in the mirror with an angular motion tinally equal to
the angle/ rf m. Hence the place of a very near object seen by reflection from a mirror
through a vane, also very close to the mirror as in the back observation for this adjust-
ment, may be very inaccurately determined, unless it be seen only in that place or spot
in the mirror from which spot the image had been reflected in a reversed position of the
quadrant in the adjustment. When the object d is so remote, that the angle/ d m be-
comes insensibly small, tben the apparent place of the image will be the same, in what-
ever part of / m in the mirror it is seen reflected from : but when the object is near, since
the axis of vision cannot be fixed by contracting the eye-hole to a point, the images must
be seen iu the same place iu the mirror.

c 2

appear in the middle oft, through which the object C is
seen directly. As the whole card covering the mirror a, is
seen equidistant from the extremities of b, every point in the
surface of a, and consequently every ray reflected from such
point, must be in the same manner seen to preserve their re-
lative positions, and as the picture of a seen in b, should
occupy nearly its whole surface ; the extremities of a, or any
rays reflected from such extremities, could not be seen in the
centre of b; but if the objects C and c, being small, could
not subtend at the eye so great a space as the whole mirror
a, the image of c would cover but a small part of the image
of a ; and if that image proceeded by reflection not from
the centre, but the extremity of a, it would be visible in the
extremity of the image of a as seen in b; i. e. at a distance
from the centre of b, (and consequently remote from the
image of C ;) if it were seen in the centre of 6, it must be
reflected from the centre of a; but if the whole surface of
a were not apparently coincident with that of b, this might
not be the case.

Hence appears the justness of Mr. Ludlam's direction^
that the centres of both mirrors should be seen to coincide
in the horizon glass with the object seen directly ; for the
images can appear thus, in both positions of the quadrant
coincident only under a certain and invariable position of
the specula, though their whole surfaces were uncevered ;
it is hard however to distinguish by the eye what is the

middle part ofi the back horizon glass. * By the glass herein-
after proposed to be used for Mr. Blair's adjustment, instead
of the polished edge of the index glass, the beam of light is
reflected to the eye undivided, which Avill allow the axis of
vision to pass through the axis of the back horizon glass ; as
it ought to do, whether for adjustment of this glass, or for
taking angles ; and as the axis of vision cannot be the same

* Tliis glass lies so obliqueto the eye, that I thiak it yet remains to be enquired what
is to be considered as its middle part, whether the middle of the fore or back surface
or the middle of its substance, or lastly that ppiut in the Siinie, -which is the vertex of
tiie angle made by the incident ray with the sanre refracted by its fore surface after re-
flection from its silvered surface* . It would appear to me of litlle moment, which of
the two beams of light, proceeding, singly from the middle of the index-glass, and re_
fleeted double from the two surfaces of the horizon glass, be chosen for adjustment as the
fixed axis of vision, (for both cannot be iudiscriminatejy used, as emerging from dif-
ferent parts of the glass,) provided the reflected image be seen only by the same beam, ,
issuing from the same part of the horizon glass in all reversals of the quadrant ; were it
not that the axis of vision ought to pass through the middle or axis of the glass, for
the convenience of direct as well as reflex vision ; according to which the reflected
ray cannot, in the oblique position of the glass, impinge on the middle of either sur-
face ; but must be made (by turning the instrument in its plane, and placing the sight
vane properly,) to fall on its fore surface between the middle of it, and the edge next
the eye, if the reflection is to be made from the fore surface; and between the middle
and the remote edge, if the image reflected from the back surface is to be seen. The
proper place for reflection in the designed axis of vision, may be marked on the
face of the glass, by sticking to it a fine waxed thread; and thea the black line on the
card before mentioned, covering the face of the index^lass, (or such another thread
fixed along the middle of it,) must be made to coincide with this thread in every posi-
tion of the quadrant for this adjustment; and as two images of the line will appear from
the two surfaces, one only of them must be invariably used : the card to be removed im.
order to view the objects, when the line on it is made coincident with the thread.

14 •

for both these, since the incidence of the rays from the
middle, and of those from the normal edge of the index
glass on the horizon glass, is different ; so the position of the
back sight vane, and the position and direction of a tele-
scope, (if one be used,) must be altered for these different
purposes. The vane may, without moving its support, have
its position changed, by having the eye hole.made in a little
'moveable plate fastened on the support ; but a complicated
motion would be requisite for the telescope, to place it in
the best manner for each of the above intentions. If it is
expected to answer by only a circular motion of its upright
stand, changing its direction, without moving it from its
place, the stand should be placed as near as possible to the
back horizon glass ; for the farther it is removed from it, the
more distant in one of its two positions will its axis be from
the axis of that glass.

To ascertain the direction of the sight and of the telescope
in making an observation by the edge of the .index-glass,
or of the glass here to be proposed for. the same purpose, let
a moveable rule or square, perpendicular to the face of the
quadrant, be applied to the farther side of the quadrant
opposite to the back horizon glass; and when the direct and
reflected images are brought to unite, as the eye looks
through the axis of the glass, let the rule be shifted, till its
edge is made to appear in the place of their coincidence. ^If
then a mark be made on the side of the quadrant at the edge
of the rule, a line drawn from the mark through the axis of

'15

the horizon glass, will point out the axis of visfon and direc-
tion of the telescope. If the position of the latter be wrong,
the observations will be erroneous, unless Mr. Hadley's cor-
rection be applied. *

If the object which bj the eye at JE is seen in m, i. e. the
object c removed to m, were to be brought to appear to the
eye at e to coincide with C, by giving the mirror h an angular
motion sufficient for thisj such motion would be too great ;
for then the incident ray ma, and the reflected ray 6 €\ would
not be parallel, nor consequently the glasses perpendicular:
only half this motioH must be given, and then the stand
changed, or the object w moved to c, till the object and
image are made to unite; (it being the same in effect, whe*-
ther the stand be moved toward the object, or line joining the
objects, or the object toward the stand) ; and then the qua^
drant must be turned half round to its first position, and the
images brought half way together by turning the horizon glass
and united as before: this- to be repeated atevery semirevolu-
tion, so often as necessary, till the adjustment of the horizon
glass is perfected'.

When the objects C &cc are very distant, a small removal of
the quadrant to the right or left of a line joining the objects^

* Whether the eye, which- is itself a telescope, and with a large aperture, ever re-
quires a correction of this sort, when it looks through a sight vane,, is not questioned ;
nor whether it views any thing obliquely ; i. e. whether its axis be always the axis of
its vision ; but enough is said here to shew the errors that may arise in some cases,
from looking through an eytj hole or vane of too great magnitude; and these errors
would not be corrected by using, a telescope, unless Mr. Hadley's correction, (in hia-
ith corollary,) were applied.

will make no sensible difference in the angle of incidence and
reflection of the rays, nor consequently alter the place of the
images, as would be the case if the objects were near.

If the quadrant, instead of being turned half round from the
position A F Q to ap q^ were to be so inverted, that tlie in-
dex and horizon glasses A and B should be placed on the lines
E c, C e, the adjustment could not be made, unless the ob-
jects were so remote, that the interval between the glasses
would make an insensible angle at either of the objects, and
that any little motion on either side of a line joining the
objects, which might accidentally be given in reversing the
quadrant, would cause likewise only an imperceptible divari-
cation of the images. For if the quadrant were to be turned
upside down, and so that the centres of the mirror would fall
on the lines C c, E c as before, the centre A on D, and B
on F ; then the angle of incidence of a ray falling from C
on Dy would be different from that of a ray from C on A ;
it would therefore not be reflected to F ; so that it would be
necessary to turn the instrument in its plane, in order to
make the image of C be visible in the horizon glass ; by which
the glasses in the 2d. position would not be parallel to them-
selves as they were in the 1st. nor is there any certain posi-
tion in which they could be placed, as this will depend on
the distance of the objects. So that the horizon glass cannot
be adjusted by reversing the face of the octant, unless the
objects by which this is to be done, are so far removed, that
the distance between the glasses subtends at them an imper-

ceptible angle'; which Mr. Ludlam says will be, when thej
are removed at least half a mile oft": * and for the same rea-
sons, the adjustment cannot be made by the observer's turn-;
ing himself half round with the instrument, without revers-
ing it, unless the objects arc at a distance as great as this,
if it be not fixed on the same points, as above directed ; by
which alone the parallelism of the glasses is preserved, and
also the same incidences and reflections, which are only ex-
changed one for the other by a half turn of the instrument ;
so that when the horizon glass is rightly adjusted, the direct
and reflected images are reciprocally visible and coincident.

By this mode of adjusting the back horizon glass, by placing
the quadrant on two fixed points between two near objects, a
contrivance is made practicable, of using with full advan-
tage the excellent method proposed by Mr. Blair of adjust-
ing it at all times, by placing it parallel to a reflecting plane
perpendicular to the index glass : for ascertaining which per-
pendicularity, the above mode of adjustment is necessary; as
Avithout knowing and making allowance for any deviation
from it, in all observations taken, they would all be erroneous ;
wdiich circumstance, as also this adjustment being the test of
the accuracy of the addition, which I am to propose to the
furniture of the quadrant, is the reason why 1 have been so
diffuse in the explanation of this method.

The reflecting plane Mr. Blair proposed to be formed of

t This depends on the magnifying power of the telescope, and the snjallness of the
ang. it will render disccrnable.

VOL. XII. D

the lower edge of the index glass itself, by grinding and po-
lishing this edge perpendicular to the plane of the glass. The
adjustment would be thus rendered admirably easy and certain,
if the edge of the glass be formed perfectly plane and truly
at right angles to it's face ; were it not that this edge is neces-
sarily ,so narrow, as not to afford a sufficient field of view to
the observer, for distinguishing the object by which the ad-
justment is to be made : for the rays fall on the edge of the
mirror so obliquely (making an angle with the plane of the
edge, of no more than about 21 or 22 degrees, and forming oii
the back horizon glass an image equal in breadth, on its
oblique surface, to the edge), that if the index glass were so
great as half an inch in thickness, its edge would subtend at
the eye near the horizon glass an optic angle of about 85 mi-
nutes ; and if its thickness be, as usual, 1th of an inch, it would
take in a field of only about 20 minutes; which is too small
to distinguish with ease the terrestrial objects to be viewed,
though it would serve with difficulty for adjustment by the
contact of the edges of the direct and reflected imaires of
the sun or moon : this however it would do with all facility,
if the thicknesses of the index and horizon glasses were such,
and so proportioned to each other, that the image of the
former might be reflected from the fore and back surfaces
of the back horizon glass, single, so as to form one image of
double breadth, by the double reflection : for which purpose
the buck horizon glass must be very thin, and the index glass
too thick; as otherwise the image from the under surface of

the former would emerge at a distance from that reflected
from its face ; and the interval would to the naked eye ap-
pear like a shaded list, preventing the contact of the images
observed from being seen by the double reflection, and con-
fining the field to one of the images emerging from one sur-
face of the glass ; which will be as contracted as above
stated.* However, as it will always be easier and more

* This will readily ai)pear on inspection of Fig. 3 : in which A is the index glass, and
B the back horizon glass, placed at right angles to each other ; each glass being Jth ^
of an inch in thickness : on which a beam of light a b, proceeding from a remote object
S, is incident on the edge of the mirror A, in an angle with the plane of the edge of about
22 degrees, being the complement of the angle of incidence on the same ; which in the
quadrant is generally about at least 68 degrees: from which edge it is reflected to the glass
B, and reflected again'from both surfaces of the same; the extreme rays a and h of the
beam of light, being throughout its progress, distinguished by the same letters ; and
those reflected from the back surface marked a 2, and h 2 : their course (as the fig.
itself will shew), is traced with sufficient exactness; from which it appears, that the
beam of light a b, contracted by reflection from the mirror A to the li^Xh part of an
inch in breadth, preserves the same dimension till it enters the eye ; both in the beam
*■, reflected from the anterior surface of the glass B, and in the beam 2 reflected from
its back surface: for though this latter is diff"used when it has penetrated the surface of
the glass, it is again contracted on emerging from it ; and is, as reflected from both sur-
faces, become a double and divided beam, the interval between both its parts being al-
most the thickness of each of them, which is equal to the sine of 22 degrees to a radius
jth of an inch : and if the thickness of the index glass were to that of the horizon glass,
as the sine of the refraction of the rays to its cosine, the interval between the beams
would be equal to the breadth of either. To fill up the vacuity of the reflected light in
this interval, by making the beams x and z issue contiguous, the thickness of the index
glass must be to tliat of the horizon glass, as double the sine of refraction, to the cosine :
tliis may be made evident as follows.

Let tiie beam of light a b (fig. 4.), be reflected from the edge of the index glass A t»

D 2

pleasant to adjust by Mr. Blair's method, when the eyo
takes in a sufficient field of view ; and moreover as not every
where a quadrant can be procured, furnished with an index

tlie horizon glass D, iu tlie same manner, and with the same incidences, refractions and
reflections as in fig. 3 ; on the mirror C it will occupy a space / /, equal to the breadth of
the edge of the mirror A ; and will cover the equal space It r, on the back surface of the
mirror B ; after reflection from which, it will be refracted in the surface Ik, enier,r;ing
in the beam z; the several rays iu this beam issuing at distances from / toward k, equal
to the distances of their first incidence from i toward 1; the last ray b i emerging
coincident with the ray I a: so that if the beam x did not fill the space i I, the beam s
would not fill the space k I, but would leave an interval next to /equal to the deficiency
toward i. Let the line p r be drawn perpendicular to the mirror, bisecting the line / 1, and
the angle of incidence and reflection / r i, and parallel to c # the cosine of the angle of re-
fraction n I s, which angle is equal to c s I. In the similar triangles s c I, r p i, the side
r p, the thickness of the mirror B, is to p i half the thickness of the mirror ^, as « c the
cosine of the angle of refraction, to c i or s n the sine of the same ; so that when the thick-
ness of the mirror B, is p r the cosine of refraction, the thickness of the mirror A must
be double of p i the sine of the same angle. Now to make the index mirror of so great
thickness may produce a small inaccuracy, when angular distances are to be taken bc-
,tween very near objects, at which a small part of the length of this mirror would subtend
a perceptible angle; for the thicker the glass is, and the greater the complement of the
angle observed, the greater intervals on its surface will there be between the places of
iucidence and emergence of the rays forming the reflected images; which will therefore
be seen, sometimes by rays issuing from the middle of this mirror, and sometimes by rays
distant from the same : from which variation I have above stated the errors that may
arise: and because every minutia in the construction or use of this admirable instrument
is deserving attention, it may be worth while to shew the manner in which this hap-
pens.

Let I G (fig. .5.) be the index glass, in its position when the index is at o, and //the
ttorizon glass at right angles to it ; its adjustment being made by the reflected image of an
object .V, seen by the eye at E to coincide with another opposite object visible in the
direction E //. The image of S is conveyed to the eye by the ray S A refracted in A C,

mirror, whose edge is grouiid accaratel}' at right angles to its
plane, and the edge also set up perpendicular to theplaneof the
instrument; (for which the purchaser must generally rely on

reflected from C to B, thence refracterl again in B 11, and reflected by the mirror 7/' in
// E parallel to S A. Since the mirror //, and the axis of vision E H are fixed, the ray
a fj K also fixed, in all observations taken; and every object must be seen by rays nl-
timately coincident with B H. Suppose it be required to find the angulaV distance of
anotlier object s, from the object seen directly in the line E H; and that for this pur-
pose, and to make the image of s appear in E H, the index is moved to the position "
i g, through half the angular distance SAs of the objects, (the lines SA and EH
being supposed the same, and the interval AH to be accounted for) ; then the inwe
will be seen by the ray s a, inflected, as before traced, in the lines a c, c b, h H, and
HE', and the thickness of the index glass being moderate, there will be an interval
between the place of incidence on it of the rays S A and* a, so small as to be imper-
ceptible, and to occasion no error. But if the thickness of this mirror were great, as
AD ox ad, and the rays to be reflected from D and d; the image of S would be visible
by the ray J? j», proceeding in ;> D, D B, B H, and f/\E ; and the image of s by the
ray t e, e d, d b, b H, H E. So tlrat when the adjustment was made, by the ray Rj)
incident at p ; the object s wouhl afterward be seen, and the angle s A S measured, by
the r>y t e, incident at e, considerably distant from p. If the object s was very remote,
the rays saand fe would be as it were parallel, and their incidences and course the same ;
but if the object s were near, as at r, then the incidences would diflcr, and the error of
observation be equal to tlie angle era, so much the greater, as the object is nearer, or ■
as the compIeme«it of the aDgu^dr distance observed is greater: and the same will be the
caacin the fore as well as in the back observation; which latter may be made as true as
the former, if the line of direction of the sight be accurately fixed, by a long eye-tube,
or telescope rightly placed, and if the other requisites above mentioned be observed.

Thus though in observing remote objects, and for naulical uses, no iHconvenience will
arise from the thickness of tlieindex glass ; (which if it be duly proportioned, as here
stated, to that of the horizon glass, and its edge truly formed, is doubtless the best and
surest mechanical organ for adjusting the latter); and though no error can hence arise
in performing the above described adjustment ; wherein the position of tiie index glass

the maker ; and few artists can be furnished with the exqui-
site apparatus, which must be employed for effecting tiic
former); I think it may be to many desirable to have an

to the object is not changed, nor consequently the incidences of the rays on it ; yet in
observing very near objects, as the height or angular distances of buildings, offsets in
surveys, bearings^ &c. a .great thickness of the index glass will produce a variable error,
which though trifling, is unsatisfactory in an instrument, whose general excellence would
make one wish it to be exempt from even the smallest imperfection. And this error can
be diminished only by choosing such a certain position for the index glass with respect to
its centre of motion, as would cause a part of the field of view to be lost in measuring
angles but little exceeding 90°, when the rays fall very obliquely on the index glass, and
when also the error eucreases, as does the complement of the observed angle to 180
degrees. For the point e (in fig. 5.), can be made to approach to the point j», only as the
triangle e d h, which is of given dimensions, shifts toward the mirror H, by its angle b
advancing toward it in the line h H, the triangle being moved parallel to itself; by w hich
the point h would fall beyond the end of the mirror i g at g, and the field would be
contracted. But the face of the mirror et, and consequently the triangle e b d, will
be elevated, by advancing toward H, more or less, as the centre of motion of the in-
dex is placed farther from, or nearer to, the line p B the face of the index glass : so
that the point of incidence of the ray t e cannot fall nearer to that of the ray R p, with-
out causing a part of the field to be lost, and this where it is most contracted.

It has been made evident here, that if the thickness of die index and horizon glasses be
equal, or as formerly in use, there will be an interval between the beams of light re-
flected from the opposite surfaces of the Jatfer ; and in this interval the reflected image
is not visible to the observer; who can only see there the object directly through the
glass: and if he is to view both images coincident, he can only do so in the space filled
by the beams ; as in x or 3 fig. 3 ; for if he attempted to make the extremities of the
images to coincide at the internal edge of either of the reflected beams, he could not
hold the quadrant steady enough to keep them there ; for which purpose it would require
to be absolutely immoveable.

On these accounts, if advantage is to be taken of the double reflection, (without
which the narrowness of either beam of light, and the evanescence of the reflected

easy contrivance to be substituted, where required, instead
of this operation on the edge of the mirror ; and which can
be executed with httle additional labour by any instrument-
maker ; so as to afford a sufficient field of view, with a ca-
pacity for accurate adjustment.

This I have effected by the contrivance of a second small
index mirror; requiring only one plane surface, and fixed
on the index at right angles to the great mirror ; being totally
free and detached from the index mirror, and capable of every
adjustment for itself, without interfering with, or impeding
any motion requisite for that purpose for the index glass, or
altering its position. The following description of such a one,
Avhich I have made, will shew that it is a very simple ajid
easily fabricated addition to the quadrant.

image in their interval of separation, will make the observation witli the naked eye un-
certain and troublesome) ; it is neccsary that the light from both surfaces of the glass,
should be contiguous, having no interval ; which can only be effected, either by making
the index glass almost one quarter of an inch thick, or by reducing the thickness of the
horizon glass to less than t'jth of an inch; or by such a mutual compensation of both,
as would still leave one as much too thick as the other would be too thin, for the uses
above stated: and though this may be remedied, while yet the glasses remain of thcit-
due and proper dimensions, by using a telescope, whose aperture is large enough to
take in botti beams of the reflected light v/itlt the interval of their separation ; yet in
ordinary quadrants, of simpler construction and more moderate price, not designed to
be furnished with a telescope, or mirror with a polished edge, I cannot but think that
an easy and cheap substitution for both, would, if found to answer, be very useful ; as
securing at all times the advantages of Mr. Blair's invention for the back observation,
(at least for taking altitudes), to those navigators, who do not furnish themselves with
a more perfect and expensive instrument ; as well as to those who on land desire, in sur-
veys, to ascertain large angular distances by the quadrant ; or by an artificial horizoa

The ichnographical plan and position of both the mirrors
is represented in fig. u. as they are fixed on the head of the
index.

jB is the great mirror, and b is the cock supporting it, with
its case ; D the wing or adjusting lever of the cock ; /and g
the screws for erecting it perpendicular to the plane of the
instrument in the usual manner; and e e are the steady pins
in the index fastening the cock ; d d are two pins on which
the edge of the mirror rests.

A is a round brass plate, with a milled edge of the same
size with the head of the index, and with the fig, both being
three inches in diameter, and screwed fast to it, concentric
with the index, by the four screws s ss s screwed into the in-
dex. C is the little mirror screwed to the plate by the screw h
passing through the Aving IL of its cock c : it is erected and
fastened perpendicular by means of the screws h and i, in the
same manner as the mirror B is by the screws y and g: m is a
steady pin fastened in the cock c, inserted into a hole in the
plate A ', and k another strong steady pin rivetted in the plate,
the upper part of which, being cylindrical passes up through
a hole in the strong bar or wing E of the cock c, which hole it
exactly fills, but allowing the cock to be elevated or depressed
a little for adjustment of the mirror, without any angular mo-

to take altitudes or angles exceeding 45 degrees, to find the latitude, &c., for whicli
the back horizon glass must be used. It is also desirable for the interests of science
and navigation, that quadrauts of snfRcieot performance should be made capable of
being fabricated in different places.

tion about the centre of the index. Thus by the screws A and
if and the steady pins k and m, the little mirror is made erect
arid fixed on the plate A : it is also set at right angs. to the
index mirror B, by loosening a little the screws s s s s, and turn-
ing the whole plate A by its milled edge, round its centre on
either side, so far as necessary ; and when this is found to be
accurately effected, the screws sss-s- are to be again made
fast; when the little mirror will be perpendicular both to the
plane of the instrument, and also to that of the great mirrors
and cannot,^ without suffering violence, alter its position..

This circular motion of the plate A, and of the little mirror
fastened to it, is permitted, without communicating any mo-
tion or even contact of it, to the index-glass, its cock, steady
pins, or screws, by the following contrivance.

Through the plate A are cut long holes or slrts, formed as
represented in the fig. concentric with it, at the places of
the screws s s s s, f, and g, and also at the pins d d and e e .
these slits are made just so wide, as that the screws and pins
will not touch them, and that the heads of the screws will,
when screwed down, press upon the edges of the slits : the
slits at e g are not represented in the fig. to avoid confu-
sion : the slits at s and g should be so long as to allow the
plate A to turn through the space about -~\.\i of an inch on
each side of the screws fixed erect; and the slits atdd, e e^
and f, may be shorter, according as they lie nearer the cen-r
tre, each slit bounded within the same sector of a circle.,

VOL. XII^ £

Through these sHts in the plate A, the screws s s s s, f, and
^ g are inserted, and all except g fastened in the head of the
index i in which latter, the pins e e penetrate also through
the wing D of the cock of the index-glass, to steady it.

^ The edge of the index-glass D rests on the pins d d, which
project only so ftir above the surface of the plate J, as to
keep the nHr^ and the wing D of its cock clear of it, so as
that the plate can turn about under both without touching
tliem : and the bar or wing E of the cock c lies about |th of
an inch above the wing D, so as to be quite clear of it, and
permit adjustment by raising or depressing the wing. It may
be supposed that the cock c and its wing E must at first be
so formed that the mirror C, when fastened to them, will be
nearly at right angles to the mirror J3, when the bar E lies
parallel to the index mirror, and the screws, &c. are in the
middle of the slits in the plate A ; that a small metion of the
plate A on either side, will suffice for an exact adjustment of
the mirror C,

There is a round hole in the middle of the plate A, a good
deal wider than the head of the pin, about which the index
turns ; and the plate is made to turn concentric with the pin
by a little ring or sock'.'t R, brazed in the hole in the plate,
or by an annular ledge formed on it projecting downward
below the under surface of the plate about TTth part of an
inch. The outside of this projecting ring is to be exactly
fitted into a circular groove or cavity formed in the index, so

far distant from the head of the pin, that the ring will not
touch it, nor affect its motion or position.

Tlie cock c and its cap are formed with an indenture in.
them, (as in the fig.) at the end of the index-gUiss, in order
that the mirror C may He nearer to it, which will allow the
little mirror to be made broader, Avithout enlarging the brass
plate A and the head of the index ; while the part of the
cock not indented may, as well as its wing -E, be mad^ so
massive and strong, as not to be bent and strained easily by
any accident : a notch is cut in the aide of the bar E at the
screw/, to allow this screw to be turned, without touching
the bar: thus both the mirrors may be adjusted independent
on each other.

The little mirror C requires not to be silvered on the back,
and consequently its opposite surfaces need not be parallel, so
that it may be made of a piece of well polished and plane
looking glass, but the polish must be taken away from its
back surface by grinding it on a plate with fine emery and
water ; and the surface thus made rough should be smeared
over with a feather dipt in oil of turpentine mixed with
lampblack, to prevent all reflection from that surface.

The addition of this mirror to the index adds no trouble to
the business of fixing the index-glass: the extra work re-
quired is that of the little mirror and of the plate d ; and the
fabrication of this plate will be greatly facilitated, if it be
cast from a model, in which the slits and perforations, and

E 2

the central annular ledge, (the former to be of a size a little
less than requisite in the. plate when finished,) are already
made in their proper places. The plates cast from this model
will require no measurement nor piercing, and only want to
be filed, turned and polished.

The mirror C is to be adjusted by making it, by a fore ob-
servation, parallel to the back horizon glass, by turning with
the left hand the plate A by its milled edge, till the images
of the object viewed are seen to coincide ; and then fastening
the plate A to the index by the screws s s s 5 : it follows, that
the back horizon glass must itself be for this purpose previ-
ously adjusted at right angles to the index-glass, in the way
before mentioned, Avhich may always on land be easily per-
formed. And I should imagine that even atsea, when the sea
is calm, it might perhaps be practicable, by fixing up two
papers, with a black line drawn vertically on each, on the adja-
cent sides of two masts of the ship ; by which lines, the qua-
drant fixed on two points of a moveable stand, placed on deck
between the two masts, may have the back horizon glass ad-
justed as above, in order by this means to try at any time whe-
ther the little mirror C has its adjustment altered i which,
however, must be very unlikely to happen, especially if the
contiguous sides of the plate A and of the index be not po-
lished, lest the plate should slide on the index. At other
times the back horizon glass is to be adjusted by the mirror C,
supposed to be itself right in position ; and indeed considering
that this mirror is not, as the horizon glasses are, rested on the

points of two pins like a lever, and that these glasses are
moved and secured, not by the outer edges of the circular
plates of their frames, but by the small axes of those plates,
very near the centres of their motion ; whereas the mirror C
is fastened firmly on a broad plate, screwed tight near its
margin by 4 screws to the head of the index, it is not easy to
conceive how it can alter its adjustment ; though from the
above mode commonly in use for fixing the horizon glasses,
it is not unaccountable why they should frequently do so, not
being fastened by the margins of their frames. These frames,
however, are sometimes moved by endless screws playing ia
their ratched edges ; and this construction when well executed,
is much better than the former.

Read 21st May, 1810.

Two Proofs of the BmOMIAL THEOREM, hj the REV.
SAMUEL VINCEy A.M.F.R.S. Plumian Professor of
Astronomy and experimental Philosophy, in the University of
Cambridge

Eead May, 1810

When n is a whole positive number, it is proved bjr
common algebra, that

(Ifo;) " = 1 + w* + n. -==ii?^ + - - -n. "-=i "idtlx'+ &c.

Now if this be not true when w is a fraction, let the general
co-efficient be C + w. ~- "-^^ .r'. Then the quan-
tity C must vanish when w=l,2, oo. Now as C is

expressed in terms of w and given co-efficients, it must alv^ays
be of the same form whatever n is, and, as it must vanish
Avhen w— I, 2, oo, it must be represented by ^^ ^ n ix n 2

X n — 00—^^(7/ — an~\+ &c.) where r is infinite j this

therefore must be the value of C. But when n is a fraction,
this value of C becomes infinite, which it cannot be, and as
no other value of C can enter in addition, but this, the gene-

ral value of the co-efficient of x can be no other than

n. n — 1 n — r-\- X

ITi-EM ALITER.

Let n and s be indefinitely great, whole, positive numbers,
80 that -7- may represent any fraction ; then by common
algebra
(i + ^)-= i+nsx + ns^-f^'+ScciP')

{i + x)" = J+nx 4. n.^x^+ Stc. (P).

Now it is proved in my Fluxions, that (i+a)— may be
represented by a series of the form

1 + cf.r 4. ijr + &c. (P)— , where the form of the series in
respect to x is the same as that of the above series ; we have
therefore only to consider what is the relation of the corres-
ponding co-efficients. Now the series (P') and (P) are ex-
actly of the same form in every respect, the factor ns in the
former being represented by n in the latter. If therefore
we perform the same operation on these two series, the re-
sults must have the same form, and whatever change maj'

take place on ns in (P'), the same must take place on ji in

(P). If therefore we extract the s Root of (P') and (P),
the forms of the two series expressing the roots must be the
same, and the roots be deduced by the same rule. Now the

reiluction of ( p') to (P) is made by writing for the quantity
jis in (P') that quantity divided by the root s to be ex-
tracted, or writing 71 for ns ; the reduction is therefore made
simply by the root s to be extracted, dividing ns by s, and

writing the quotient for m; hence we extract the s root
of (P) by the same rule, that is, by writing for n in (PJ,
n divided by s ; hence

It matters not liow the s" root of the series of the form
1 + ax -\- bx^+ &c. can be extracted, or whether we should
have been able to accomphsh it if we had not known that
the series (P*) and {p) are represented by {i+cc)"' and (i+.r)".
By whatever process the / root of (P') is extracted, whether
discoverable or not, by the same process the s" root of (P)
will be extracted. The Binomial Theorem shews the series

(P) to be the s" root of (P'), which is all we want to ascer-
tain.

VOL. XII.

On certain Properties of Numbers, by the REV. SAMUEL
VINCE, A M. F. R. S. and Plumian Professor of Astro-
nomy, in the University of Cambridge. An extract of a letter
to the Rev J. Brinkky, D. D. F. R. S. M. R. I. A. and An-
drews' Professor of Astronomy in the University of Dublin.

Ramsgate, June 26, 1810.

EuLER in his Introductio in Analysim Infnitorum, in the
chapter de partitione Numerorum, has shown, that bj a com-
bination of the numbers in each of the Geometric Series 1, 2,
4, 8, &c. and 1, 3, 9, 27, &c. all the natural numbers 1, 2, 3, 4,
&c. may be formed, as far as the sum of each series goes. This
he has proved, from assuming the products of an indefinite

8 4 8

number of factors(l+jr )(l + a' )(1+^ )^l + x ) &c. in the

first instance, and( 0? +1+.T ){^ t + I +x j(^ x +1+0:' ^&c.
in the second; shewing that in each case, such products may

8 3

be represented by a series containing the terms i +x+x +x

+x + &c. the indices of which must necessarily arise from
the combination of the indices in the assumed factors. But

35 ^

the property now stated may be otherwise proved in a very
simple manner immediately from the expression for the sum
of each series, I have also added the rules for filling up the
intervals of the terms, which Euler has not given ; and shew-
ed under what circumstances, other series will have the
same property.

First, for the seines 1, 2, 4, 8, &c.

The sum of 1+2+4+8+ 2 ""^ "~l-S; hence,

8+1=2 the next term. The difference, then, between the

sum 5' of w terms, and the next term 2," is 1 ; therefore the
sum S of n lerms, carries on within 1 of the next term. If
therefore you can for n terms, make up all the natura,! num-
bers to their sum, you make them all up to the number next

less than the next term S ; and by adding all those numbers

to 2 , you get all the numbers to the number next less than
«+i

2 . If therefore the rule be true for n terms, it must be

true for n+l terms. Now if we take two terms 1, 2, we get
1+2=3, that is, we get all the numbers as far as the sum of
the two numbers, and within 1 of the next term. But, as pro-
ved above, if the rule be true for 2 terms, it must be true for

3 terms; if true for 3 terms, it must be true for 4 terms ;
and so on; hence, the rule is true in general.

Secondly, for the Series 1 , 3, 9, 27, &c.

The sum of 1+3 + 9+27+ s'~L^zzS ; hence,

25+1=3 the next term. The difference, then, between the sum
5 of w terms and the next term 3 is S+i ; therefore the sun»

S subtracted from the next term 3", leaves 5+ 1] that is, it
brings jou back to the number next greater than the sum S.
If therefore j-ou can for 7i terms make up all the numbers to

S, the same numbers subtracted from the n+i" term will
bring you back to S+i, the number next greater than ■S';

thus you fill up all the numbers in the interval between the n
term and the w + l' term ; and if the same numbers be added
to the w-|-l" term, you make up all the numbers as far as the
sum of w+1 terms ; if therefore the rule be true for n terms,
it must be true for n+i terms. Now if we take two terms
1, 3, we have 3 — 1=2, 3+1=4, and 4 subtracted from the
next term 9> leaves 5 the next number greater than the sum ,
of two terms. But, as proved above, if the rule be true for 2
terms, it must be true for 3 terms ; if true for 3 terms, it
must be true for 4 terms ; and so on ; hence, the rule is true
in general.

The intervals of the first series may be filled up by the
following Rule.

Let A be any number, and 2" the term next less than A.
Take ^^ next less than A—2"; 2* next less than ^—2"— 2';

2* next less than A — 2" — 2*^ — 2 , and so on till there be no

remainder; and-then 2"+2'"+S*-f2'+ &c. = A.

In the second series, all the numbers in the general interval

from 3— 3"~i 3"^! &c. i to 3"+3""'+3'""' + &c.

+1, including those terms, may be made up by the

following Rule.

After 3" for the j^rs^ term put — 3"'"' for 3""' times, then

cyphers as often, and then + 3°'"' as often.

For the second term put — 3""" for 3"~ times, then cyphers

as often, and then +3""^ as often ; this to be continued three
times.

For the tJiird term put — S""" for 3" ' times, then cyphers

as often, and then 4-3""' as often ; this to be continued nine
times.

For the fourth term put — 3"~ for 3"~ times, then cyphers

as often, and then +3"~ as often; this to be continued ifz2?en;y-
seven times.

In general, for the r ' term put — 3"""^ for 3"~' times, then

cyphers as often, and then +3""^ as often ; this to be con-

r— 1

tinned 3 times.

Proceed thus through all the terms, and you will fill up all

the numbers.

But besides these two series, there are many others which

have the same property ; of these, the two first terms must

necessarily be 1,2, or 1, S, or the interval between the two
first terms cannot be filled up. The series must also have
this further property, that the sum preceding any term (P)
must reach at least half way from (P) to the next term (Q),
or to (Q — i). The following series have this property.

1, 2, o, 10, 17, &c.

1, 2, 7 17, 33, &c.

1, 3, 6, 10, 15, &c.

1, 3, 9, 19, 33, &c.
and many others ; but the series which requires the smallest
number of terms to fill up the interval from 1 to any given
number, is, 1, S, 9, 27, 81, &c.

An Account of a -oery remarkable WATER SPOUT, which ap'-
peared at Ramsgate, July l6, 1810, a little before 3 o'clock in
the afternoon, just after a Thunder Storm; by the REV. S.
VINCE, A.M.F. R. S. Plumian Professor of Astronomy and
Experimental Philosophy at Cambridge.

IN the annexed figure, L M N" represents a cloud, in which
there first appeared a figure in the form jP G, resembling an
huge serpent; this immediately stretched itself out in an hori-
zontal direction AM B; at J5 it turned at right angles down-
ward in the direction J5 C to the sea D E, the sea immedi-
ately under it rising up in a cylindrical form v w x y io meet
it. The horizontal part, (which was straight), I judged to be
about 3 or 400 yards long, and the perpendicular part B C
in the proportion now represented, the greatest diameter of
which I estimated to be about o or 6 feet. It was attended
with an hissing noise, and continued about 5 minutes, when
it almost instantaneously disappeared, every part of it at the
same time dissolving as it were into air, the water in the sea
then ceasing to rise up. Water Spouts are an electrical phe-
nomenon, lightning being sometimes seen to play in them»
Perhaps this, which appears to be of a very singular form (for
I have never seen such a one described), maj be thus account-
ed for. If the cloud L M N, and the air at B were charged

with different powers, the spout might take the horizontal di-
rection MB; and if the air at B, and the sea immediately
under it were also charged with different poAvers, the spout
might take a perpendicular direction downward, and the sea
rise up to meet it. The spout could not be water in its li-
quid state, for water in that state projected from the cloud,
must necessarily have descended in a curve; and further, had
it been water in that state, whpn the supply from the cloud
ceased, from the ceasing of the cause, it would have disap-
peared gradually from the cloud, shortening till it vanished
at the sea; whereas it vanished altogether almost instantane-
ously. From all the circumstances attending the spout, it ap-
pears that it was nothing but part of the clouddrawnout in a
very condensed state, for although the cloud was very
black, the spout was much blacker, the part in the
cloud appearing very distinctly in the cloud itself. On
this supposition we may account for the sudden disap-
pearance of the spout; since, by the operation of the elec-
tric power, the watery vapour might be resolved into its two
constituent airs, and thus disappear almost in an instant.
All water spouts, as they are produced by the same cause,
Ave may conclude to be of the same nature, that is, a very
condensed watery vapour. They have, perhaps, been con-
sidered as water, from the torrents of rain which frequently
attend them, so as to render it difficult to distinguish that
from the spout; and also from the rising up of the sea where
they fall, the effect being such as might arise from the falling
of such abody of water as the spout has been supposed to be.

Re/rac?u)n
H

Jn Account of Observations made at theObsevvatory of TRINITY"
COLLEGE, DUBLIN, with an Astronomical Circle, eight
feet in diameter, which appear to point out an annual parallax
in certain fixed stars.

Also a Catalogue of North Polar distances of forty-seven prin-
cipal fixed stars, from recent observations, and a compariso*i
thereof with those of the same stars, obtained by other instru-
ments, and by the same instrument, at a former period. By
JOHN BRINKLEY, D. D. M. R. 1. A. F. R. S. and
ANDREWS' Professor of Astronomy, in the University of
Dublin.

Read May 9, 1 814.

To prove the motion of the earth about the sun, bj
actual observation of change of distance from some of the
fixed stars, at different times of the year, has long been an
object of research. Soon after the Copernican System be*
came generally adopted, and while Astronomy was yet in
an imperfect state, tliis was considered in some measure ne-
cessary to establish the truth of that system. Afterwards
the discoveries in physical astronomy made this enquiry, as
far as the above motive was concerned, less interesting.

YOL. XII. ft

Modern astronomers have looked to this object principally
with a view of ascertaining whether any apparent annual
motion of the fixed stars, from this cause, existed necessary
to be noticed, in computing the mean place from the
observed.

Dr. Bradley, by his celebrated observations, which led
him to the discovery of the aberration of light, first esta-
blished that as to certain stars no parallax existed capable
of being noticed. His observations were made with an in-
strument, that, for observations near the zenith, has not
since been surpassed.

Since his time it seems to have been generally allowed,
that the annual parallax of every fixed star was too small
to be noticed, till lately M. Piazzi, of Palermo, conceived
that his observations pointed out a parallax in certain stars.
An account of his conclusions is given in the Conn, des
Temps, 1808, together with an account of some observa-
tions made at Rome on a Lyrs.

My observations, by the eight feet circle, which com-
menced in 1808, have pointed out also a parallax in a Lyra,
but considerably less than that observed by M. Piazzi. It is
only with respect to this star and Arcturus that our conclu-
sions agree in pointing out a parallax.* My observations

* I can only refer to the account of M. Piazzi's observations given in the Con. des
Temps. 1808, p. 4'32. In which it is mentioned that the observations themselves are
to be found in the 10th vol. of the Italian Society. By the account in the Con. des
Temps, it appears that M. Piazzi observed in Procyon, a parallax of declination, such

tend to point out a parallax in a. Lyroe, a, Aquilae, Arcturus, «
Cygni, and « Ophiuchi, and some others. M. Piazzi considers
c& Aquilas as having no discernible parallax, whereas my ob-
servations tend to point out that a Aquilae has a greater
parallax than any other star that I have observed. Besides
this discordance between the results of my observations and
those of M. Piazzi, it is to be noticed that other results ob-
tained by instruments executed by the first artist, and by
observers justly celebrated, do not accord with mine in point-
ing out a parallax. Itis therefore with great diffidence that
I offer my results to the Academy. These results tend to
prove that the parallax (the angle subtended at the star by
the diameter of the earth's orbit) of a Ljtsb, by 152 ob-
servations amounts to 2" ; of » Aquil<E, by 96 observations
= 5", 5 ; of Arcturus, by 92 observations = 2", 2 ; of « Cyg-

as would result from a double parallax of 20" whereas by my observations I find no
indication of parallax in this star. Indeed from tlie account given in the Con. des
Temps, by M. Delambre, the results of M. Piazzi, as to parallax, cannot be consi-
dered as entitled to much confidence, and in consequence M. Delambre may appear
justified in making the following remark.

" Malgre les efforts dont nous venons rendre corapte, il ne parait pas que nous
" ayons encore rien de bien certain sur la distance des etoiles. Cette connaisance est
« peut etre du norabre de celles qui nous seront toujours refusees."

No one should consider this as reflecting any censure on the observations of a person
who has rendered such excellent services to astronomy. It should only be understood
that the instrument used by M. Piazzi was inadequate to the research.

ni, by 47 observations = 2'', i.* The results as to other
stars I shall reserve till my observations have been more
numerous.

I shall endeavour to make such remarks respecting these
results, that the Academy may form a proper judgment how
far they serve to- establish the important conclusion, which
I conceive may be derived from them.

For this purpose it is necessary to give some account of
-the instrument by which the observations have been made.

The superiority of circles over quadrants, and the advan-
tages derived from the micrometer microscope, are so well
known, as to make it quite unnecessary, that they should be
-Stated here.

About the year 1788, soon after the late celebrated artist
Mr. Ramsden had strenuously recommended those improve-
ments, which his mechanical skill had rendered so very prac-
ticable, the Provost and Senior Fellows of Trinity College,
Dublin, by the advice of my predecessor, Dr. Usher, di-

* Perhaps it may be objected to me that what I call parallax, should be called double
parallax, since properly the parallax is the diflference between the observed and mean
place. In this way the

parallax of a, Lyrx = 1",0
of a, Aquilae = 2,7
of Arcturus = 1,1
of a Cygni = 1,0

But I believe that, generally, when the parallax of a fixed star is spoken of, the
greatest change of place is intended, which is equal to the angle subtended by the dia-
meter of the earth's orbit at a fixed star.

^ 37

reeled a circle, ten feet in diameter, to be made for this ob-
servatory. Mr. Ramsden protracted for many years the exe-
cution of the instrument. After beginning one of 10 feet
diameter, he afterwards rejected it for one of 9 feet, which
was actually divided. The latter he also rejected, and at his
death he left unfinished our present instrument of 8 feet dia-
meter. This was finished by his successor, Mr. Berge, and
placed in the observatory, about the middle of 1808. The
long period which elapsed, while the instrument was ex-
pected, will be always a subject of regret to myself. On
some future occasion I may, perhaps, lay a detailed account
of this instrument before the Academy. At present I shall
on-ly mention such particulars, as may be necessary to render
intelligible the method of making observations with it, and
the degree of accuracy to be expected from it.

The circle is supported in a frame, which frame turns on a
vertical axis. The upper part of the frame is of cast iron,
turns in a collar, and is connected with the lower part of the
frame by four hollow brass cylindrical pillars. The lower part
of the frame, which is also of cast iron, terminates in a pivot
of steel, which turns in a socket of bell-metal. This socket is
moveable south and north, by one screw, and east and west,
by another, for the purpose of adjusting the vertical axis.

The axis cf the circle, a double cone four feet in length,
is supported an Ys which are themselves supported by strong
bars of brass attached to the cylindrical pillars. The pres-
sure of the weight of the circle and its axis is relieved by an

ingenious application of friction wheels and the lever. There
is also an ingenious contrivance for adjusting the axis hori-
zontal.

The circle of brass is divided into intervals of 5 minutes,
which intervals are subdivided by micrometer microscopes
into seconds and parts of a second as usual.

There are three microscopes. One called the bottom mi-
croscope, opposite the lowest part of the circle : a second
opposite the left extremity of the horizontal diameter, and
a third opposite the right extremity of the horizontal dia-
meter.

The frame carrying the circle turns on the vertical axis
with the greatest steadiness. The circle also turns on the
horizontal axis with equal steadiness.

The vertical axis of the instrument is adjusted by a,
plumb line. The plumb line which performs this adjust-
ment is about 10 feet long, and is suspended from a point
about 8 inclies from the centre of the top of the frame, and
passes over a point below, 8 feet from the point of sus-
pension. By help of this point which is moveable by a
screw, and by the moveable socket below, the axis of the
instrument is made vertical. The adjustment of this axis, as to
the north and south positions is, it is evident, of the most es-
sential consequence to the exactness of the zenith distance
of the object observed. It is likewise evident that, from the
great interval between the upper and lower parts of the in-
strument, the temperatures above and below must occasion-

ally differ, and thence the relative positions of the point of
suspension, and of the point below, be changed. To obviate
this inconvenience, which would be fatal to the accuracy of
the observations, the point of suspension is on a compound
bar formed of bars of brass and steel, and the point below
is also placed on a similar compound bar. By this the dis-
tance of the plumb line from the vertical axis remains always
the same. This contrivance appears to answer in a very satis-
factory manner. *

The axis of the instrument being adjusted vertical, and
the plane of the circle in the meridian, and facing the east ;
let b, I, r, be the zenith distances of a star as shewn by the
bottom, left and right hand microscopes respectively. AVhen
the plane of the circle is in the meridian, and facing the
west, let U, I', r\ be the zenith distances of the same star as
shewn by the respective microscopes. Then the true zenith

distance = g or-j-V— ^ — I 3— A And the cor-
rection of the mean of the three microscopes

The accuracy of the result of an observation is affected

* The circular instrument in plate 8 of Professor Vince's Practical Astronomy, may
be referred to for our circular instrument. Except that in our instrument there is np
azimuth circle. The plumb line is suspended in the position represented, but the com-
pound bars are not represented. Also the pillar F is perforated for the insertion of the
bottom microscope. The horizontal microscopes are not represented, and there is no
microscope at n.

1. By the error of the mean of Uie six readings arising
from inaccuracy in the divisions and error of eccentricity.

2. By inexact adjustment of tiie vertical axis.
S. By error of reading off,

4. By error of bisection of the star.

5. By error from change of temperature affecting the parts
of the instrument.

From my examination of this instrument, I have reason
to conckide there is no sensible error of eccentricity, and that
as far as the divisions aro concerned, the mean of the six
readings can never occasion a greater error than 1", and an
error of this amount will take place ordy in very few parts of
the circle. A comparison of the results determined by the
bottom, and by the two horizontal microscopes : also a com-
parison of the corrections of the mean of the microscopes
determined by stars at different distances from the zenith,
seem to leave no doubt on this point.

It may appear an imperfection in this instrument that we
cannot avail ourselves of a microscope at the highest part of
the circie. The reading off a microscope so placed would be
highly inconvenient, and on account of the circumstances of
the instrument, the use of it might be attended with some
danger, both to the observer and instrument. However it
does not appear that the accuracy of the results would be
materially affected by such an addition.

By means of the plumb line the vertical axis can in ge-
neral be adjusted with great precision ; but this operation is

oftentimes very troublesome, and, it is to be feared, sometimes
cannot be performed with the desired accurac3^ The plumb
line passing near the plane of the circle*, no screen can be
used. Hence even a slight agitation of the air occasions a
slow motion in the plumb line ; and the observer, without
much tedious precaution, may be deceived as to this essen-
tial adjustment. From hence, doubtless, have arisen greater
discordances in the observations than would have otherwise
taken place. This imperfection arises principally from the
situation of the plumb line, it would not be difficult to give
it another situation in which it might be safely screened from
the agitation of the air, and were the instrument Avithin a
convenient distance from the maker, I should endeavour to
have this alteration effected.

Notwithstanding this imperfection, I think I may safely
pronounce that as far as errors of observation are concerned
a-^mean of 10 observations (five the face of the circle being
east, and five the face being west) will give the zenith dis-
tance exact to much less than one second, and that a mean of
20 observations, according to a very high degree of probabi-
lity cannot induce an error of nearly half a second as far as
errors of observation are concerned.

* An adjvistment of the microscopes was intended by means of the plumb line, and
four gold dots placed on the limb of the circle. This made it necessary that the plumb
line should pass very near the plane of the circle. But the method of observing thence
resultuig I found inferior both in accuracy and conveniencs to that in which the plumb
line is only used for the adjustment of the vertical axis.

VOL. XII. 11

42 .

Ill errors of observation I include errors of adjustment in
the vertical axis, errors of bisection of the star, errors of read-
ing off, and also errors arising from changes of temperature
in the instrument.

From what has been said, the principal circumstances rela-
tive to the astronomical circle at our observatory will be
readily comprehended.

The angle to be obtained by each observation is the exact
zenith distance of the object, from which, the zenith distance
of the pole having been previously determined, the polar dis-
tance or declination of the object is known. The zenith dis-
tance can only be had by the assistance of a plumb line or
spirit level. The inaccuracies and inconveniencies to which
both these instruments are liable have long been known, and
as the zenith distance is not necessary for finding the polar
distance, it has been, sometime ago, proposed to find the
polar distance without a reference to the zenith point, by
simply observing the arches of the meridian intercepted be-
tween the object, the polar distance of which is required, and
stars, the polar distances of which are known, or can be ob-
tained by help of circumpolar stars.

Mr. Troughton, whose fame as an artist is justly so cele-
brated, has made several circles with this view, and has lately
made a mural circle of 6 feet in diameter for the Royal Ob-
servatory at Green\vich. The recent construction of this
instrument, in which Mr. Troughton has availed himself of
his long experience and the latest improvements ; the cir-

cumstance of tlie telescope admitting of being shifted to dif-
ferent parts of the circle i the number of microscopes used,
and the firmness of their position in the pier; and the great
knowledge, skill and assiduity of Mr. Pond, the Astronomer
Roj-al, all promise very important results for Astronomy.

There is, however, one circumstance to be noticed, respect-
ing this method of observing, of some importance, and which
bears particularly on tlie question, whether any of the fixed
stars have a visible parallax.

In the mode of ascertaining the north polar distance of an
object by the mural circle, it is requisite to know the north
polar distances of certain fixed stars with the changes from
precession, effects of the semi annual equation, aberration, nur
tation and refraction. If some of these stars be also affected
by annual parallax, it is obvious that if no notice be taken of
this, the north polar distance required will be inexact. It
may be said that the same correction being obtained by dif-
ferent stars, will shew that no such annual parallax exists so
as to be sensible. This point certainly might be ascertained
in this manner b}' a sufficiently numerous set of observations.
Still, as it may be suggested, that many of the fixed stars
may have small sensible annual parallaxes, observations,
which will point out only the difl'crences of these, are not
so proper as those by which the whole quantity would be
pointed out. This may perhaps be better understoood by
considering what would have taken place had this mode ol

observing been used before the discovery of the aberration

II 2

of light. It would have been extremely difficult to have
separated the compound results, and assigned the proper
quantity to each star, as Bradley was enabled to do at once,
as to his observations by his zenith sector.

The observations I am about to state point out changes
of zenith distance in certain stars at difterent seasons of the
year, which changes are explained by annual parallax, and
after long and anxious consideration I have not been able to
assign any other cause.

a Lyras near Opposition.

Time of IFace of
Observation Circle

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan. 1, 1811.

Mult.

for
Paral.

Time of
Observation

Face of Mean Zen. Dist.
Circle Jan. 1, 1811.

Mult.

for

Paral.

1808, July 28

Aug. 21

W
E
E

14 46 19,93
20,41
21,58

+ 1
,77
,55
,53

1811, Julyl7
20
21

E
W
E

14 46 20,80
19,05
21,28

,84

,82
,82

1809, June 17

Julys

W
E
W

18,03
21,49

17,38

,52

,87
,87

22
23
26

E
W

18,22
17,56
17,41

,81
,80
,78

8
13
14

W
E
E

19,93
21,03
18,31

,86
,85
,84

Aug. 1

E
E
W

18,02
19,44
19,48

,76
,75
,74

.18

^ ,19

E-

17,86
IS, 46

18,74

,84
,83
,83

4
5

20,94
18,40
21,81

,72
,71
,70

20
23

E
E
W

17,43
19,18
19,29

,82
,80
,80

1812, June 28

Julys

W
W

18,04
18,79
18,10

,69

,88
,88

Aug. 4

W
W
W

21,79
19,76
19,15

,79
,71
,67

Aug. 6

7
8

E
W
W

13,42
18,07
18,44

,69
,68
,67

9 E
1810, July 1 , E

... 8i E

20,73
19,67
19,69

,67
,S8
,86

24
25

16,25
20,28
19,69

,65
,52
,51

'{■'' 9 j W
15 E
24 W

19,22
18,26
18,27

,86
,84
,80

1813, July 2

E
E

19,59
20,42
21,11

.48
,88
,88

- . 26

-; ' .,,27

21,25"

17,.32

19,59

',78'
,77
,75

E
W

21,30
20,57
19,44

,88
,87
,87

' 18U, July 2

; 7

" W
E

19,20
18,96
19,43

,88^

,87

10
14

: 15

E
W

20,22

19,63

j 18,81

,86
,85
,85

j^,

-*-

19,49

- 20,20

18,13

,87'

,85

,84

' 20
23

E-
W

'' 16,21

---■ 18,68

,82
,80

46
tt Lyras near Conjunction.

Time of
observation

Face

Circle

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan. 1. 1811.

Mult.

for
Paral.

Time of
observation

f Mean Zen. Dist.

Circle! J^"- 1.1811

Mult.

for
Paral.

1808, Oct. 22

Nov. 2

E
E

14 46 20,61

22,59

. 22,57

,33
,48
,53

1811, Dec. 10
11
13

14 46 21,53
20,43
17,66

,83
,83
,85

Dec. \'

EW
EW
EW

18,99
21,74
20,91

,80

,81
,85

1812, Jan. 14

E
W

22,14
22,62
20,32

,88
,85
,83

1809, Jan. 22

EW
E
W

20,33
22,19
22,65

,88
,80
,73

20
21

E
E
W

21,25
21,48
20,68

,81
,80
,60

Dec. 7

1810, Jan. 22

E
E
W

19,53
22,20
20,04 i

,82
,79

,78

29
Dec. 2

22,95
20,85
21,58

,72
,79
,82

Feb. 4.

E
W
E

21,30
20,81
18,49

,68
.63
,59

10'

22,19
21,19
20.46

,83
,84
,85

1811, Jan. 10

E
E
W

18,53
20,14
18,71

,52
,84
,86

15
22
31

19,74
21,70
20,07

,85

,88
,88

12
15
16

21,65
22 89
21,62

,85
,83
,83

1813, Jan. 4

Nov. 28

21, Ol.
19,97
19)48

,87
,86

,76

17
20
21

19,70
19,71
21,73

,82

,80

1 ,80

Dec. 6

W
W
E

21,64
22,90
20,11

,81
,83

,85

Nov. 19

• W

22.55
22,86
20,76

,79
,79
,68

20
21
26

W
W
W

21,63

■^ 20,20

19,85

,87
,87
,87

Dec. 2

20,79
23,24

,79
,81

1814, Jan. 3

21,55
21,36
20.17
22,40
22,84

,88

,88
,88
,88
,88

«e Lyras near 6 o'clock in the Evening.

Time of

Observatioa

Face

of
Circle

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan. 1. 1811.

Mult. !

for \

Paral. '

Time of : ^Y
Observation j.?^,^

Mean Zen. DisU
Jan. 1. 1811.

Mult.

for
Paral.

ItJlO, Aug.28
Sept. 5

E
W

14 iC iy,?7
17,79
20,00

-|-,4G
+ ,35 1
+ .32

I811,0ct.ll
^2
16

W
E

14 46 20,38
18,91
.20,03

—,17
—,17
—.24

16
Oct. 1

E
\V
E

19,98
21,21
20,61

+ .31 i
+,20 ■
—,03

1813, Sep. 29

Oct. 1

E
W

18,09
19,85
20,21

—,00
—,03
-,07

2
5
6

W '
W

20,56
18,84
21,53

—,06
—,10
— 11

6
7
8

21,03
19,67
22,95

-,ll
— ,13
-,14

1811, Oct. 9

E
E
E
W

20,64
20,16
22,82
22,7S

-,13
—,14
-.23
-,14

14
15

W
E
E
W

17,48
20,35
20,85
20,8g

-,17
—,22
—,23
-,27

The first column points out the clay of observation. The second
shews the position of the face of the circle. The third the mean
zenith distance, Jan. 1, 1811, to which the observations have been
reduced a? being a middle epoch between the observations. The
last Column is the multiplier of the semiannual parallax to obtain
the parallax in zenith distance at each observation. Tlie product
is to be applied, according to the sign, to the zenith distance in the
third column, to obtain the mean zenith distance..

Let p. represent the semiannual parallax of « Lyras.

Mean Zen. Dist.

a / //

Then by the first 20 observations near opposition J* 46 19,51 -\-,76p

fay next 20 .... 19,07-l-,82p

by next 25 .... 19,26 + ,75p

Mean of 65 observations near opposition 14 46 19,28 + ,78;?

By first 20 observations near conjunction - 14 46 20,84 — ,72p

by next 20 - - - - 21,24— ,8Ip

by next 21 . . - - - 2l,0l_,85p

Mean of 61 observations near conjunction 14 46 21,03 — ,79^

Hence 19",28p.+,78p = '2l"fi3—,79P'
orp = 1 ,1
and the parallax of the annual orbit for «■ Lyrae = 2",2.

Thus the mean zenith distance
of « Lyr^, Jan. 1, 1811, by 126 observations = 14 46 20,15

By the 26 observations, near 6 o'clock in the evening,
the mean zenith distance, Jan. 1, 1811=14 4b' 20", 'i 5 — , 0 op.

If the above conclusion respecting the parallax of a. Lyra?
be 'not admitted, some explanation of the differences of the
zenith distances must be sought for.

First, it cannot arise from errors of observation, compre-
hending error of adjustment in the vertical axis, error of bi-
section of the star, and errors of reading off. These errors by
their nature are corrected by taking a mean of repeated ob-

49,

servations, and an inspection of the result of each observation
will s-hew that it is impossible a mean of 60 observations can.
be aftected by a greater error of observation than a very
small fraction of a second-
It occurred that the mean of the observations made and
r^ad off in day -light might differ from the mean, of the ob-
servations made near midnight. It soon however was satis-
factorily ascertained that the differences could not arise froni!
this cause.

, Secondly, the difference cannot arise from errors of divi-
sion, for in fact the same divisions are used as to the same,
star. The correction of the mean of the microscopes, obtained
by observations of different stars, which have been used to
deduce the observed zenith distance of a Lyrae, although,
affected by errors of division, occasions no error in the result,,
because care has been taken that the numbers of observations
East and West should be nearly equal. The zenith distances
corrected for the mean of the microscopes have been put
down merely to shew the consistency of the observations..
The means of the zenith distances at each time of the year,,
depend only on the observations of a, Lyr» itself..

Thirdly, it cannot arise from uncertainty in the changes
of refraction. This star is too near the zenith for^any materiuK
uncertainty of this kind.* -

* These observations have been calculated by Bradley's refractions. Had they been ?
calculated- by the French Tables, (which I have used for a, Aquilae and Arcturus) ;
the parallax would have been about two seconds. This alteration arises from the differ- -
VOL. XII.. I

Fourthly, it cannot arise fpom aay uncertainty in the max-
imum of aberration of light; whether we take the maximum
at 30" or 20i" Because when « Lyrae passes the meridian
near noon and midnightj the aberration is very small, and
therefore not affected by a small error in the maximum.

But it is necessary to compute with precision according to
the sun's longitude at the time of the passage, as the aberra-
tion changes rapidly at these times. The semi annual equa-
tion is nearly the same at these times, and therefore no error
from thence. The precession or any small uncertainty in the
quantity of proper motion can occasion no en'or;

When indeed « Lyrce passes near 6 o'clock, then an un-
certainty in the maximum of aberration may affect, the con-
clusion, because the aberration in declination is nearly a max-
imum, and therefore in this enquiry it is of some consequence
to know the maximum of aberration.

Hence the observations of » Lyr^ near quadrature aie less
proper for this enquiry, and have accordingly been less aU
tended to. Those that have been made are however, very*
consistent with the observations made near noon and mid-'
night.

The only solution, perhaps that we have left, unless we
admit of parallax, is, that in different degrees of tempera-

ent laws of change of denaity frpip change of temperature in Bradley's, aad in the
French Tables.^ — In « Lyrae.it is scarcely wortli notice, but is considerable in » Aquilte.
In, that, star the parallax comes out legs by the French, than by Bradley's Refractions.

ture, the figure of the instrument changes, and gives dif-^
ferent results for the same star. This cannot be the case.

For 1st. with respect to several stars, the results are the
same when the means of the thermometer differ by many
degrees. Thus,

« Polaris.

14 observations mean therm. 55,2 give seconds in zen. dist. - 5,79

23 do. mean therm. 39 give do. - 6,27

II do. mean therm. 411 give do; - 6,02

a Polaris S. P.

23 observations mean therm. 59,8 give seconds in zen. dist. - 25,26

21 do. mean therm. 39,2 do. . 25,65

The above are even computed by Bradley's formula for
refraction which certainly gives the change of refraction
from change of temperature too great.

Arcturus.

1 8 observations mean therm~. 59 give seconds in zen. dist. - ^4,68

20 do. do. 64 do. - 3*i99

23 do. do. 40 do. - 35,23

These are also computed by Bradley's refractions.
Secondly, if the figure of the instrument changed in
different degrees of temperature, the zenith distance of a.

I 2

AS-

star, determined by the bottom microscope onl}'^ would not
preserve, in different temperatures, the same relation to the
zenith distance determined by the mean of the three micros-
copes. No alteration however is observed to take place.
Thus for a Lyrae the following are the corrections to be ap-
plied to the zenith distance by the three microscopes to give
llie zenith distance by the bottom microscope only.

Correction.

Summer

1811

— 0"40

Winter

1811

—0,26

Summer

1812

—0,46

Winter

1812

—0,07

Summer

1813

—0,03

Autumn

1813

—0,24

This indicates no change of figure, and the same is ob-
served with respect to other stars. In a. Aquilae, for in-
stance, the quantity to be applied to the mean of the three
microscopes to give the result by the bottom microscope

only = + 1 nearly, and no material change occurs in dif-
ferent temperatures. *

Besides if this parallax arise from some deception, it
ought to appear in all stars sufficiently near the zenith, so
as not to be afteeted by uncertainty in change of refraction.

• The difference between the mean of the three microscopes and the bottom aakros^
cope is no where greater than for a Atjuilse.

.53

Capella, /3 Tauri Procyon, Polaris, above and below the
pole, y Draconis, (3, ^, ti, Ursae majoris and other stars do not
shew changes of zenith distance similar to what appear as to
a Lyrae, Arcturus, «, Aquilaj, * Cygni, and a, Ophiuchi.

The mean zenith distances from a number of observations
of the pole star above and below the pole are given, as in-
stances where no changes of zenith distance are noticed. *
Also the results as to « Aquiloe, Arcturus and « Cygni. The
results as to other stars which seem to have a sensible pa-
rallax will be given when the observations are more nu-
merous.

If parallax be not admitted, it must appear very remarka-
ble that in no stars have annual changes of zenith distance
been observed by this instrument that cannot be explained
by a parallax. It might be expected that in some stars the
changes would have been quite opposite to the changes from
parallax.

It may perhaps be suggested that there may be some un-
known peculiarity in my mode of observing, that would ex-
plain these appearances of parallax. In answer to this it is

* In the observations of the pole stat, each zenith distance is the result of observa-
tions made before and after the meridian passage of the star, the instrument having been
reversed in the interval. This has sometimes been done for other stars, but not often.
Tlie value of this instrument may be considered as much enhanced from being capable
of being used at a small distance on each side of the meridian, by noting the time of
observation.

only necessary to mention that many of the observations have been
made by my son, Mr. John Brinkley, A. B. and comparing the
lesuUs of our observations no differences are observed.

a Polaris in the Spring,

Time of
Observation.

Face

Circle.

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan. 1, 181J.

Mult.

for
Paral.

Time of
Observation.

^'^*:? Mean Zen. Dist.
Circle J«"-'. '811.

Mult.

for
ParaL

1809, Mar. 3

Apr. 10

E\V

EW
EW

34 54'44','51
46,84
44,70

+
,86
,98
,97

1810, Apr. 24

May 27

EW
EW
EW
EW

34 54 46,35
44,27
45.65
44,98

+
,91
,91
,56
,54

May 9

EW
EW
EW

46,45
46.33
43,77

,93
,80

,80

1811, Mar. 27

Apr. 22

EW
EW
EW

44,15
45,90
46,11

,53
,99
,93

14
22
23

EW
EW
EW

43,77
45,09
45,67

,74
,65
,64

1814, Feb. 2
7
9

45,63
47,17
44,54

,50
,58
,61

27
1810, Mar. 5

EW
EW

44-,50
44.27

,62

,88

16
24

EW 45,05
E 44,80

,69

Themean of 23 gives mean zenith distance = 34° 54' 45", 24.+,7f>p.

The greatest zenith distance of the pole star when above the pole
as affected by parallax, is on Oct. 4. and the least on April 2. Here
as well as in the results which follow, the refraction has been com-
puted by the French tables.

< ' 55
Polaris in the Autumn.

Time of
Observation.

Face

of
Circle.

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan. 1, Jsn-

Mult,
for

Time of

Face

Circle

Mean Zen. Dist.

Mult.

Paral-

Observation.

Ja«. 1.1811. jp-j

1809, Oct 5

7
22

EW
EW
EW

3:4. 54. 43,22.
45,01
44,50 ^

,99
,99
,94.

1811, Oct. 16
22
23

E
W

34r54^4*,27
45,42
45,38

,97
,94
,9*

•

Nov. J

EW
EW
EW

46,75
47,04.
43,70

,91
,94

,88

Nov. *

Id'

E
; W

46,42
45.*7-
46,07

,91
,85

,71

1.4.
17

EW
EW

42,71
43,67

,84
,77
.73

1812, Oct. a)

E
W
: W

45i,*9
♦7,4^
45,32

,69
,95

47,06

1.9
81

EW
EW
EW

45,57
45,09
46,4,5

,72
,71
,69

34
25
26

; E
w

> E

46, 8»
45,W

,94
,9*
,92

■

29
Dec 3.

EW
EW
EW

44,95
46,70
46,97

,58
,51
.44

27'
Nov. 3

45i,19i
44(,5*
47,65«

,92
,91

,87

1810, Nov. 6

EW
EW
EW

44,57
47,44
44,58

,39
,36

,84

5
6

46,84
45,44.
44,93

,85
,84
,83

26
Dec. 1

EW
EW

43,85
45,64

,60
,53

44,61

,82

Mean of 39 observations gives mean zenith distance =
34° 54' 45", 51 — 79p. Comparing the two last sets of observations,
viz. 23 in spring and 39 in autumn, we have
45",24+,76p. = 45", 51— ,79/> ov p = 0' ,17.

From which may be inferred that « Polaris has no sensible-
parallax.

cc Polaris S. P. in the Spring.

Time of
Observation

Face

Circle

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan. 1, 1811.

Mult.

for
Paral.

Time of
Observation

Face

of
Circle

Mean Zen. Dist
Jan. 1, ISII.

Mult.

for
Paral.

1809, Apr. 14
20
23

EW
EW
EW

38 18 48,55
49,89
49,81

,96

,94
93

1810, Ap. 19
26

EW
EW
EW

38 18 47,54
47,83
48,36

,94
,90
,89

May 9
10
14

EW
EW
EW

44.,81
46,48
46,96

,80

,78

.74

May 2

EW
EW
EW

46,45
45,61
45,34

,88
,87
,86

18
22
23

EW
EW
EW

47,58
45,44
47,08

,70
,67
,66

1813, May 5

48,76
48,09
46,67

,83
,83
,79

June 4

EW
EW
EW

45,68
46,38
46,16

,65
,47
,30

16
19
20

W
E
W

49,20
48,03
47,29

,72
,68
,67

17
25

July 10

EW
EW

45,77
45,74

46,21

,26
,15

+
,09

21
26
28
29
June 1

47,92
48.71
47,00
48,58
46,89

,66
,59
,56
,55
,52

O Jf II

Mean of 32 gives mean zenith distance = 38 18 47, 21 — ,68/>.

67 - '• .
oc Polaris S. P. in the Autumn.

Time of
Observation

Face

Circle

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan. 1, 1811.

Mult.

for
Paral.

Time of
Observation

Face

Circle

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan, 1, 1811.

Mult.

for

Paral.

1809, Aug. 25
Sep. 30
Oct. 5

EW
EW
EW

;/ / //
3a 18 46,97
48,11
44,78

+
,78

,99

1811, Nov, 3
5
6

38 IS 45,48
47,53
47,50

+
.87
,8*
,85

24
28
31

EW
EW

i;w

46,20
4.S,98
47,95

,93
,91
,88

11
18

47,70
49,49
46,27

,80

.72
,66

Nov. 16

17
18

EW
EW
EW

45,25
46,51

45,42

,73

,72

1812, Oct. 14
15

45,77
47,45
46,57

.98
,98
,-95

19
21
23

EW
EW
EW

47,14
45.79
46,90

,71
,69
,66

21
23
25

E
W
W

46,90
48,10
47,30

,95
,94
,93

Dec. 1
11

1810, Nov. 16

FW
EW
EW

46,75
46,98
47,35

,53
.37

,72

27
28
29

46,07
45,75
47,87

,91
,91
,90

1811, Oc. 15
16
19

W
E
W

46.31
46.07
47,31

,98
,98
,96

Nov. 2
3
4

45,46
46.66
47,05

,87
,87
,86

Nor. 1

46,25
45,35
46,99

,93
,93

,88

5 W

6 E

7 W

45,65
45,83
47,68

,8S
.85
,84

The mean of 42 observations gives mean zenith distance =
3&M8'.46",76-[-,84p. A comparison of the mean of the observations
in spring and of the mean of these in Autumn gives 4?",21 — ,68p
= 46,76 + ,84p. or p = 0'',30 from which also I infer that the
parallax of » Polaris (if any) is too small to require to be noticed.

VOL. XII.

Aquilae.

Time of
Observation

t
Face of Mean Zen. Dist.
Circle Jan. 1, 1811.

Mult.

for
Paral.

Time of
Observation

1
Face ofMean Zen. Dist.
Circle Jan. 1, 1811.

Mult.

for

Paral.

1809, July 20

Aug. 21

E
W

45 0 32,48
27,44.
27,99

+
0,48
0,32
0,32

1811, Aug. 6
10
16

W
W
W

45 d 28,89
30,46
31,57

+
,42
.40
,36

23
24
27

E
W
W

29,60
29,88
28,35

0,31
0,.S0
0,28

19
20
22

28,83
28,68
31,99

,34
,34
,32

28
1810, July 30

Aug. 26

29,07
30,90
28,82

0,27
0,45
0,29

25
27
31

31,80
28,69
31,03

,30
,28
,25

1811, July 14.
16
20

E
W
W

28,80
28,99
29,18

0,50
0,49
0,48

Sep. 1

1812, Aug, 6

E
E
W

29, U
28,29
29,29

,24
,42
,42

21
22
23

E
W
E

31,48
30,77
27,84

0,48
0,48
0,48

8
9
16

29,88
32,15
29,54

,41
,40
,36

1 Aug. 3

W
E
W
E

S0,63
30,34
30,81
31,38

0,47
0.46
0,46
0,44

Sep. 5

E
W

28,13
27,07
28,79
31,02

,.'?0
,29
,28
,21

The mean of the above 38 observations gives mean zen. dist.
»= 45° 0' 29^74 +,38/>. The effect of annual parallax as to
« Aquilse makes the zenith distance greatest, Dec. 29, and least
June 29.

59
X Aquilffi.

Time of
Observation

Faee

Circle

Mean Zen. D ist.
Jan. 1, 1811.

Mult.

for

Paral.

Time of
Observation

Face

of
C ircle

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan. 1, 1811.

Mult.

foV
Paral.

1808, Nov. 29
Dec. 19

E\V

45 0 32,49
34,22
32,97

0,44
0,51
0,52

1811, Dec. 13
18
21

E
W

45 6 31,40
32,63
33,36

0,50
0,53
0,52

1809, Jan. 30

Feb. 11

E
E
E

30,63
32,42
30,73

0,44
0,37
0,33

1812, Jan. 4

31,33
32,56
29,84

0,52
0,51
0,50

1810, Feb. 4
13
18

E
W

29,17
31,58
31,58

0,41
0,35
,038

21
29
30

E
W

29,68
32,10
32,22

0,48
0,44
0,44

Mar. 10

1811, Jan. 2Y

VV
E
E

33,26
31,06
30,53

0,16
0,13
0.45

1813, Jan. 20
25
Feb. 3

31,08
33,61
32,00

0,48
0,46
0,41

Feb. 3

W
W
E

32,99
32,92
.31,80

0,45

'0,42

0,35

32,61
31,75
32,01

0,40
0,38
0,34

Dec. 11

W
E
W
E

3i,l6
32,29
33,55
29,44

0,31
0,28
0,27
0,50

19
20
21

E 29,78
W 31.98
E 31,07
W i 32,65

0,31
0,30
0,29
0,29

The mean of the above 38 observations gives the mean zen.
dist, 45° 0' 3r',87 — ,40;?. Hence by comparing the preceding set
of observations with these, we have 29^74 + ,38jP = 3r',87 — ,40p
orp = 2",73.

Hence the parallax of « Aqui]se = 5",5. Tiie refractions in the

French tables have been used in the above. Had Bradley's
refractions been used, the parallax would have come out
considerably greater. The value of p is less exact, on ac-
count of the smallness of its co-efficients.

A mean of 20 observations near six o'clock in the evening,

gives mean zenith distance = 4o°.0'. 30",64 — ,\p.

The mean of the above 76 = 4fl.O. 30,80 — ,01^?.*

* M. Delambre in his remarks on M. Piazzi's observations, proposes to examine the
effects of the parallaxes in changing the right ascensions. This confirmation would be
very satisfactory, and might be readily attained, were some stars so much affected
by parallax as M. Piazzi has supposed. But if the parallaxes be so small as my
observations tend to point out, no expectation of this kind could be entertained as to
« Lyrae, Arcturus, and a, Cygni.

As to y Aquilae, the right ascensions in March and September would differ by about
— of a second of time, and, under the circumstances of the case, it would require
attention to detect this quantity, but it might b*e done. If this difference exist it ought
to be allowed for in computing the apparent from the mean right asceasion.

Arcturus.

Time of
observation

Face

Circle

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan. 1. 181 1.

Mult.

for
Paral.

Time of
observation

Face

of
Circle

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan. 1, 1811

Mult.

for
Paral.

1808, Oct. 27

Nov.l

E
W
W

33 12 5i',86
52,88
56,15

,54
,55
,56

1811, Oct. 16

18
25

33 12 55,72
55,57
55,02

,7?

^ ,48

,53

11
27
29

EW
EW
EW

53,55
52,93
54,51

,60
,61
,61

Nov.l

55,01
56,21
52,72

,53
,56

,57

Dec 10
13
U

EW
EW
EW

53,14
52,50
52,74

.59
,59
,59

18
19

55,87
55,71
56,67

,61
,61
,61

1810, Sept. 6
iO
21

W
W
E

52,56
57,61
53,98

,12

,16
,27

Dec. 1

1813, Oct. 14

54,49
53,94
56,02

,61
,61
,46

Nov. 5

E
W
W

53,75
55,48
56,62

,57
,58
,60

Nov. 2

55,16
56,52

54.27

,49
,56

,57

Dec. 1

E
W

55,42
54,86
55,97

,61
,61
,61

3
11

57,61
.55,23
55,90

,57
,60
,60

1811, Oct. 11
12

53,57
56,74
£5,84

,59
,44
,45

Dec. 14

57,50
56,32
57,69

,60
,58

,57

In deducing these results from the observations of Arcturus,
the annual change of N. P. D. has been taken = +16",81. The
annual proper motion of Arcturus may be considered in some
measure uncertain, and it may be thought that the conclusi>)n
respecting parallax will be affected thereby. But this is not the
case. Let the annual variation in JV. P. D. = I8",81+e. *

Then the mean of the above 42 observations gives
the mean zenith distance = 33' 12' 55", 11 — ,54/> — ,4:e.

* The annual variation in N. P. D. of Arcturus seems by my observations to be at least
+ 19",1. But the interval since they commenced is too short to speak with much conSdence.

Arcturus.

Time of
observation

Face

Circle

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan. 1, 1811.

Mult.

for
Paral. ;

Time of
observation

Face

Circle

yiean. Zen. Dist.
Jan. I, 1811.

Mult.

for
Paral.

1809 April 20

May 14

E
EW
EW

33 12 53,83
54,85
53,70

+
,52
,56

,60

1811 May 19
26
29

E
E
W

3°3 12 56,07
52,35
53,79

+
,61
,61
,61

June 25

1810 AprU 25

54,64
51,80
53,27

,61
,52
.53

June 9
12

E
W
W

52,83
53,89

54,71

,60
,59
,56

27
28

56.24
51,90
53,76

,55
,55
,56

1813, May 11

W
E
W

52,89
53.32
56,07

,56
,60
,61

May 2
^ 4

51,48
52,22
55,26

,57
,57
,57

20
28
29

E
W
E

54,16
54,95
52,87

,61
,61
,61

5
6

53,10
53,34
52,41

,58
,58
,61

30
June 2

55,48
55.52
52,69

,61
,01
,60

1811, May 11

E
W

54,27
56,77
53,11

,61
,60
,61

5
8

E
W -

53,81
53,17

,60
,59

From the above 35 observations
the mean zenith distance = 33" 12' 53" ,80+,59p — ,35e.

Hence 55", ll—,54p—,45e = 53,80 rf-,59p— ,35e

p= 1",1— ,09e.
e cannot be so great as half a second, and therefore ,09e is too
small to be noticed. Therefore from these results the parallax of
Arcturus = 2",2;

And by 77 observations, the mean zenith distance =
33''.12' 54",45+,05j) — ,4e. By 15 observations in July and August,
mean zen. dist. = 33° 12' 54", 50 + ,2p + ,68e.

Cygni.

Time of
Observation

Face

Circle

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan. 1.1812.

Mult.

for
Paral.

Time of
Observation

Face

Circle

Mean Zen. Dist
Jan. 1. 1812.

Mult.

for

Paral.

l«10, Mar. 9
10

8 46 26,21
26,31
23,91

,59
,58
,49

1813, Jan. 9
10

E
W

26,78
24,44

,8«

,88

181 I.Jan. 28

Feb. 3

W
W

24,77
21,77
23,59

,48
,89
,87

E
E
W

24,03
24,50
26,53

,88
,88
,90

23
24
28

W
E

26,42
25,68
25,35

,74
,73
,70

Feb. 4
&
6

E
W

25,81
26,46
22,83

,90
,86
,86

Mar. 12

14.

1813, Jan. 8

W
E
W

26,22
25,64
25,55

,56
,53
,88

1813, Dec. 26

27
28

1814, Jan. 4

23,48
27,29
24,40
23,81

,81
81
,82

The above 24 observations give the mean zen. dist.
8. 46' 25",07— ,76i>.

« Cygni.

Time of
Observation

Face

Circle

Mean Zen- Dist.
Jan. 1, 1812-

Mult.

Face

Circle

Mean Zen. Dist.
Jan. 1, 1812.

Mult.

for
Paral.

Time of
Observation

181 1, July 26

Aug. 3

W
E

8 46 22,77
24,49
24.24

/,90

,90

,89

181 I.Sep. 5

1812, Aug. 24
25

E
E
W

S 46 26,63
24,03
26,09

+
.67
,77
.76

10
13
16

,85
,83
.82

Sep. 5

23.98
22,93
24,81

,75

.74
.67

w
E
W

23,08
24,31
22, 1 a

E
W

22,93
21,03
24,90

,80

.80
-,•39

7
10
11

W
E

23,87
22,52
23,67

.64
.61
,60

25
27
31

W
E

21,22
22,54
21,59

,76
,74

,72

12 W
Oct. 1 E

23,46

23,78

,59
.33

The above 23 observations give the mean zcn. dist. =
8" 46' 23",48 + ,74p.

Hence 25",07— ,76p = 23",48 + ,75p
Therefore p = 1",06
And the parallax of « Cygni = 2",1.

REMARKS.

If the results deduced from the preceding observations
should be admitted, it follows that the brightest fixed stars
are not so near to us as some others. « Aquilae, which is
far exceeded in splendor by « Lyras and Arcturus is only at
half the distance of the two latter. However extraordinary
this may appear, it results from observations that appear to
me fully adequate for the conclusion.

My observations on a. Lyroe were commenced with the
view of examining the question of parallax ; but the results
of the observations of a A-quilae forced themselves as it were
on my notice. This star would not on any account have been
selected for the investigation. The effect of the annual pa-
rallax in declination is only about half the whole parallax;
The star itself has not that splendid appearance that would
lead us to suppose it as near as many others. Also its 2enith
distance in this latitude being so much as 45', some uncer-
tainty in so delicate an enquiry might be apprehended from
refraction.

My conclusions may be considered as deriving little or no
support from the results of the observations of M. Piazzi.

According to him (as appears from the Conn, des Temps
3808) the double parallax of a Lyrai is nearly five seconds,
according to me only two seconds.

VOL. XII. . L

According to him the double parallax of Arcturus is less
than that of a Lyras (the quantity is not stated in Conn, des
Tenips.) according to me two seconds.

According to him « Aquil* has no sensible parallax; ac-
cording to me the double parallax is five seconds and an
half.

According to him Procj'on has a considerable double pa-
rallax amounting to about QOf' ; according to my observa-
tions it has no sensible parallax.

According to him Sirius has a considerable parallax. This
star in this latitude is too much affected by refraction to af-
ford any satisfactory conclusion.

The small changes of zenith distances which I find in
a Lyras, in Arcturus and in a Cygni, and from which I con-
clude the parallax of each, will, it is not doubted, make
astronomers hesitate as to the degree of confidence with
which they will receive them. It is not pretended that these
quantities can be ascertained to the tenth of a second ; but
by continuing the observations, it appears to nic, that I
shall at last arrive at that degree of exactness. There seem
to be no sources of errors in making these observations, which
will not disappear by taking a mean of a great number of
observations. However, until my conclusions are supported
by other instruments, it is not likely that I shall impress
astronomers with the same confidence which I myself pos-
sess as to the results.

6?)

The astronomer royal, Mr. Pond, observing with the nevv
mural circle, made by Mr. Troughton, has not hitherto con-
firmed my results, although he finds indications of parallax in
« Lyrje and a. Aquilas. * I had felt such confidence in my re-
sults that 1 did not doubt that one of the first services that
would be rendered to astronomy, by the Greenwich mural cir-
cle, would be the confirmation of the existence of annual pa-
rallaxes in certain stars. But, allowing the greatest accu-
mcy in the observer, and excellence in the instrument, I
conceive a very probable account has been given, why
this has not yet taken place. Many of the stars, even of
the second magnitude, such as Polaris, y Draconis, &c. may
be affected by a parallax in declination, amounting to a
fraction of a second. Were we certain that the standard
stars were not affected by parallax, or had we ascertained
the quantity, if any, then the method of observing by the
mural circle would be far preferable to the methods of ob-
serving in which the plumb line is used.-)-

* Phil. Trans. 1813, part 2.
f I can feelingly bear testimony to the great superiority of the mural circle over our
instrument, as to the convenience of the observer, and the consequent facility of multi-
plying observations. In the mural circle no care is necessary but in making and reading
off the observations. In our circle the previous examination of the plumb line is often
a very tedious and sometimes unsatisfactory operation. Many observations have been
lost thereby, a serious inconvenience in a climate ill adapted to astronomical observa-
tions. The calm weather which we so often experience during a high state of the
barometer, both in summer and winter, is generally unfavourable to the astronomer, be-

L 2

The same number of observations that I have given might
have been completed in a smaller space of time, but un-
favourable skies, necessary interruptions, and the expecta-
tion of having my results confirmed by other instruments
have made the earlier observations less numerous than they
otherwise would have been. It soon appeared that increas-
ing the number of observations would not materially change
the results that I had already deduced. However the con-
sistency of the observations in the several years may with
some add weight to the conclusions.

My future exertions shall be directed in making such ob-
servations as may serve to throw further light on this subject.

If I should meet with any circumstances that shall appear
to me to invalidate the conclusions 1 have now ventured to
make, I shall cheerfully communicate them, I shall be fully
satisfied with the consciousness of having, to the utmost, ex-
erted myself, as my duty led me, in the examination of this
important question.

ing attended with a cloudy atmosphere. Clear skies oftener prevail during high winds.
These circumstances are much against the use of the plumb line.

MEAN NORTH POLAR DISTANCES OF FORTY-SEVEN PRIN-
CIPAL FIXED STARS, JAN. 1, 1813.

Names of Stars.

No.

Obs.

By Ref. in
French Tables.

Co-lat.
36° 36' 46" 5

N. P. D.
Jan. 1, 1813.

Ref

Brad.

Tab.
Co-lat.

45 ',8
N.P.D

* Polaris

* $ Ursae min.

* /S Cephei

36
38
21

1 41 21,77
15 4 49,45
20 15 31,41

2^71
49,26
31,14

+ 6^08

— 0,31

— 0,44

+ 0,14

* a Ursae maj.

* a Cephei
jS Ursa; maj.

27 14 30,88

28 12 13,90
32 37 4,72

30,29

13,30

4,07

+ 1.17
— 0,83

— 0,29

f Ursae maj.
* a Cassiopeae
^ Ursae maj.

19
8
8

33 1 22,05

34 29 22,59
34 54 42,68

21,44
21,91
41,01

-f 0,80

* y Ursae maj.
» y Draconis

• n Ursae maj.

27
20

85 15 56,22

38 29 3,70

39 44 58,37

55,53

3,00

57,61

— 0,26
+ 0,65
+ 0,27

+ 0,28

* a Pcrsei

* Capella

* a Cygni

10
30
22

40 48 51,36

44 12 20,71

45 22 58,34

50,62
19,90
57,52

+ 2,05
+ 0,57
— 0,60

+ 2,34
— 0,42

+ 0,48
— 1,90

* « Lyrae

* Castor

* Pollux

51
10
10

51 23 0,84
57 42 47,54
61 31 50,07

59,93
46,64
55,12

-- 0,53
- - 0,09
-- 1,23

+ 2,21
— 0,48
+ 0,91

+ 0,11

— 2,40

— 0,55

* 0 Tauri

* a AndromedoB

* a Cor. bor.

18
10
19

61 33 4V,22

61 56 30,32

62 38 55,51

43,19
29,31
54,44

+ 0,47
+ 0,30
4-0,99

+ 0,37

• + 2,44

— 0,09

— 2,28
+ 0.81

— 2,34

* a Arietis

* Arcturus

* Aldebaran

9
20
20

67 25 36,76
69 50 19,33
73 52 35,98

35,82
18,19
34,62

+ 0,67
-f. 0,89
-- 0,74

+ 0,41

— 1,90

— 0,79

-t- 1,35

— 1,09

— 1,64

Names of Stars.

* /S Leonis

* a Herculis

* » Pegasi

* Pegasi

* Regulus

* a Ophiuchi

;}

Aquilse

* a, Orionis

* a Serpentjs

* Procyon

Ceti

a Aquarii

K Ilydrse

Rigel

Spica Virg.
1 a. Capricorn.

2 a. Capricorn.
■2 a, Librae

Sirius
Antares

No.

Obs.

10,

10
20

10
30
10

18
18
16

10
10
12

10
10
10
10

Ref. by Frencli

Tables,

Co-lat.
26° 36' 46",5

N PD
Jan. 1, 1813.

74 22 56,44

75 23 14,64.
75 47 52,80

75 51 21,18
77 7 23,06
77 17 40,49

79 50 1,34
81 36 59,85
84 3 5,22

82 38 15,94
82 58 38,81
84 18 15,33

86 39 2,04
91 13 21,75
97 51 10,99

98 25 34,27
100 10 51,33
103 4 36,09

103 6 52,03

105 15 22r59

103 28 4,27

116 0 16,77

Brad.

Ref.

Co lat,

45",8

y.p.D

55,22
13,22
51,71

20,00
21,79
39,19

0,11

58,54
3,79

14,69
37,40
.13,87

0,74

19,96

9,39

32,67
49,23
34,09

49,68
20,02

2,47
13,77

4- 2,0^ — 0,18
+ 0,82 — 3,17
+ 0,00 — 1,04

+ 1,00 + 0,91
4- 0,90 — 0,57
_ 0,03 — 2,76

+ 0,5.5 — 0,98
+ 0,12 — 2,67
-f 0,.30 — 0,53

+ 1.03
+ 1,86
+ 0,49

+ 0,01
+ 1,68
+ 1.91

+ 1,18
+ 2,07
+ 1,36

+ 2,64
+ 2,67
- 1,77
+ 2,86

+ 0,53
+ 1,14
— 0,41

— 0,46
+ 0,49
+ 1,45

— 0,61

— 0,74

— 2,16

+ 0,57

— 2,23
+ 2,04

+ 3,33
— 2,26
+ 0,19

— 0,46
+ 0,42

— 1,25

— 2,55

— 2,53

— 3,31

1,35

—

1,49

0,19

—.

0,67

0,90

0,82

0,41

0,60

—

3,04

+ 0,89
+ 1,41
— 2,11
+ 1,55

I find by above 500 observations of circumpolar stars the
latitude of the observatory of Trinity College, Dublin,
53" 23' 13",5 using the French tables of refractions published
in 1806. Or 5.T 5J3' 14",2 using Bradley's refractions.

In the preceding catalogue the third column shews the
mean north polar distance, Jan. 1, 1813, the refractions ha-
ving been computed by the French tables, to which tables
I give the preference for reasons assigned in the paper which
follows this.

The fourth column shews the seconds of the north polar
distances, as computed by Bradley's tables.

It appeared to rae on several accounts of much impor-
tance, to compare observations made nearly at the same time
by different instrun^ents. The mural circle at the royal
observatory, Greenwich, and the circle at the observatory of
Trinity College, Dublin, may be ranked amongst the best
instruments that have been constructed. As soon therefore
as I was informed that the Greenwich circle was in use, I
determined to repeat my observations of the principal fixed
stars, and the present catalogue is the result of observations
in the latter part of the year 1812 and in the year 1813.

To institute a comparison between the north polar dis-
tances deduced by Mr. Pond and myself, it is necessary
that the same tables of refraction should be used by each.
Therefore as Mr. Pond has used the tables of Bradley, I
also computed my observations by the tables of Bradley,
and the result of the comparison of the observations is found

ill the column G. The quantity in G is to be applied to the
fourth column to give the north polar distances by the
Greenwich mural circle.

The 30 stars marked * are those which Mr. Pond uses
as standard stars ; the north polar distances of which he
has determined by a great number of observations in 1812
and 1813. (vid. Phil. Tran. 1813, part 2.) Now among
these 30 stars there arc 24 in which the results do not differ
by 1", four in which the differences exceed 1", but do not
amount to 2", and two in which the differences exceed 2",
but do not amount to 2"i. This is highly creditable to the
divisions of our circle. In the Greenwich circle the errors
of divisions, if any, will entirely disappear in a mean of a
great number of observations, in consequence of the teles-
cope being moveable. And in fact in this way Mr. Pond
has ascertained that the errors of division of the Greenwich
circle are too small to be noticed. (Phil. Tran. 1813, p. 281.)
In our instrument the effect of the errors of division in the
mean of the six readings of the microscopes, cannot be made
to disappear. The above comparison shews satisfactorily
that no material error can arise from thence.

For the stars not marked * the comparison has been
made with the north polar distances given in the Phil. Tran.
1813, part 1. The differences as to these low stars are
greater, and may probably be attributed partly to the uncer-
tainty of refraction, and partly to the use of Bradley's tables.
. In Dr. Bradley's formula for refraction the effect of the

change of temperature ou the quantity of refraction is taken
too great. This appears certain by the direct experiments of
T.Mayer, Dalton and Gai-Lussac on the expansion of air
at different temperatures. It also appeared evident to nie
by observations of low stars in different temj^eratures. The
consequence of which is, that even supposing the utmost
accuracy in the instruments and in the observations, the
zenith distances of stars will appear greater in winter than in
summer, and the more so the greater the zenith distance.

The column P shews the quantity to be applied to the
fourth column to obtain the north polar distances according
to M. Piazzi, at Palermo. His north polar distances given
in the Conn des Temps, 1812, having been reduced to Jan.
1, 1813, and also reduced to what they would have been ac-
cording to Bradley's refractions. I do not know the exact
date of these observations, but I suppose them recent. I
believe also that M. Piazzi takes the mean refraction at
45' = 57",4 and makes the same allowance for changes in
the thermometer as Dr. Bradley. If so, the correction to
be applied to the north polar distances, as determined by
M. Piazzi, to give what would have resulted from the use of
Bradley's refractions = — 0",69— 0",5 (tan. N,P.D,—55\ 53%
This quantity has been applied accordingly.

The column D is the difference between my results in
1809 and 1813. The quantities according to their signs are
to be applied to the results in column 4, to give what would
have resulted from the observations in 1809- In makiug

VOL. XII. M

this comparison, the annual motions in north polar distance,
as given in the last catalogue of Dr. Maskelyne, have been
used. These certainly are in several instances inaccurate
from the proper motions used, and to this may be attributed
some of the differences between 1809 and 1813, but it is by
no means a sufficient explanation as to others. In the case
of /S Leonis, particularly, there appears a difference that I
cannot attempt to account for. Considerable differences be
tween the results of observations of the same star when se-
parated by several years have, however, been before ob-
served in several instances, and yet remain to be accounted
for. A comparison of the means of the results of the ob-
servations of Dr. Hamilton, at Armagh, M. Piazzi, at Pa-
lermo, and Mr. Pond, at Westbury made about the. sfime
period, (Phil. Trans. 1806) and of the present results of the
Greenwich, and of our instrument, furnishes a striking in-
stance. A comparison some years hence of the present results

and of new ones obtained by the, same instruments will pyo-

. uiJ ca ii 4*, V^ a= *^t 4-

bably clear up this pomt. ., ,^

■It mav also be remarked that the observations in 1809

were computed by Bradley's refractions, and also no, '^tt^^-

tion was paid to the circumstance of parallax. The resujts

of 1813 are from, observatibns made when the zenith dia-

tjance^ from the, effects of parallax were greatest and! least.

...jflence also perhaps may be explained part of the differences

k) cQlunrin JP.

In computing my observations I have used max. aberra-
tion of light = 20",00
Lunar nut. inN,P.D.=^S" ,'iS sin. {AR — Long. moon*)s node)

+ 1,22 sin. (^R+Long. moon's node)
Solar nut. in N.F.D. = 0",48 sin. (2 Long. sun—^H.)

M 2

Ajialytkal investigations respecting ASTRONOMICAL RE-
FRACTIONS and the application thereof to the formation of s
convenient TABLES together with the results of observations
of circumpolar Stars, tending to illustrate the Theory of Re"
fractions.

Bij JOHN BRINKLEY, D. D. M. R. I. A.. F. R.S. andi
ANDREWS' Professor of Astronomy, in the University of
Dublin.

Read May 9, 1814;

A BRIEF detail will explain the objects of this paper.-
M. Le Comte Laplace first shewed that the fluxional expres-
sion for refraction may be integrated by approximation, as =
far as about 74° from the sjenith, without a knowledge of
the variation of density in the atmosphere. *

T. Simpson had deduced by the princi plies of the 8th sec--
fion of the first book of Newton's Principia, the fluxional*
expression for refraction, by considering a particle of light:
as a body acted on by a force tending to the centre of the
earth .-|- He and others since deduced the integral on the
hypothesis, that the density of the atmosphere decreased.

* M^c. c^. Lit. JO. c 1. toni. 4; f Math, Dissertations, p. 51, &&

ijfiilR)rhir>\^-TlS^mV^^ lo^ftti of the integralis that used
by Bradley. ■ •■"'•' >•'■->» JVivy*;. :>..» i.-.^ ^

Laplace uses the sahfie' liietbod of oblkfnTng the fluxional
equation as Simpson had done, and then proceeds to investi-
gate tho laws of reflection and refraction. He deriveb y an
analytical process . the conclusions, which Newton had de
(luced in the 14th section of the first book of the Principia.
Laplace next dtrrivGs his fundamental fluxional expression for
refraction which he shews may be integrated as far as
74° from the zenith, without a knowledge of the variation of
density in the atmosphere.

In this paper the same fluxional expression, that Laplace
obtained, is deduced by a very short method, and by using
the common principle of the given ratio of the sines of in-
cidence arid refraction. Besides the simplicity of the inves-
tigation it has the advantage of avoiding hypothetic prin-
ciples lespecting the rays of light.

The integration of the fluxional expression is also obtained
by a method that may be considered as entitled to notice. If
the surface of the earth were a plane, then whatever the law of
variation of the densities of the different strata of air parallel
thereto might be, the refractiou for any zenith distance
would be simply found from the knowledge of the refractive
force at the surface, by tbe constant ratio of the sines of in-
cidence and refraction. By the method given this part is
separated from the rest, and the effect of the spherical form
of the atmosphere is shewn. The formula for refraction

, 79

consists of two parts, one the refraction that would take
place were the earth a plane, the other the effect due to
the spherical form. The latter at 80° zenith distance
amounts only to about 12", and at 40° zenith distance is in-
sensible.

It is shewn that at 80' 4o' the error of the formula deduced
cannot amount to half a second, whatever be the variation of
density in the atmosphere.

;As the approximate formula for refraction as far as about
74° from ,the zenith is independent of the law of variation of
dejnsily, it follows that, whatever law be assumed, the same
conclusion ought to be deduced as far as about 74°. This is
shewu from direct investigation by assuming different laws of
variation of density ; which beside affording some conclu-
sions useful in our euauAfipS P», this subject, may be consi-

,^^pi;ed..api.u.terestiug., ^ .,

,,i.,Xl^(^ rpsult? Qf th^ .ex4>eriment8 of M. M. Biot & Arago
,pr; the r<Efi;£^cUy.e.fprce. of ,^ir, and, of Mr. Da,ltou and M.
Gai-Lussac on it,lieteflects of the change of temperature on the
density of air^re applied, aqd a general expression for refrac-
tion .at ,a,ny. zenith distance Jess than about 80° obtained,

J which is entirely independent of astronomical observations..-

From this general ex pressioii , I have .formed two tables,
by help of which th.Q refijaction at any zenith distance less
than 80° may be calculated with much convenience.

From a, comparison of the co-latitude determined by stars

■ftf'M;.'^teiPyi^» iPifi^:^,^,;^'^^ s^ni,^^ ^determined by star^im(^re re-
ihno'i ' /d fl^vi.^ ahtikoijiibiitii atli wiai 'lo

mote, I find, by o25 observations of circumpolar stars, the
refraction at 45°, (Bar. 29, 60 inches and Therm. 50".)

= 5?",42 .

The same by the French Tables - - = 57,57

The same resulting from the direct experiments
on the refractive force of air, applied to the
formula. - - = 57,67

The quantity in the French tables was ascertained from
the resuhs ot the observations of M. M. Piazzi & Delambre,
applied to Laplace's formula by Delambre himself.

My result from the number of observations, from the care
■used in making them, and from the excellence of my instru-
ment, seems entitled to as much confidence as can be given
to a conclusion derived from observations of circumpolar
stars, and there is no difference worthy of notice between
my result and that of Delambre. But from the nature of the
direct experiments on the refractive force of air, the results
seem capable of greater exactness than can be derived from
observations of circuiri polar stars, and therefore strictly
perhaps ^ve ought to adopt the result so deduced. However
the quantity in the French tables is so nearly equal to this
that no inconvenience can arise in the nicest researches in
astronomy from adopting these tables.

It is of much importance that the same tables of refraction
should be used by astronomers, and it will afford satisfaction
to the author of thjs paper, should it in any manner conduce
to this desirable end. It cannot be doubted but that sooner
or later the refractions as given by the French tables as far as

80^, or a very slight modification thereof will be generally used
by astronomers.

The form of the French tables may not be generally adopt-
ed, others more convenient perhaps may be derived. The
new form given in this paper ^vill serve as a check in the
use of the French tables, and may be thought more con-
venient than these for observations of the- sun, moon and
planets.

Below 80° zenith distance, a knowledge of the law of va-
riation of density is absolutely necessary for computing the
quantity of refraction. As this cannot be had, all tables for
these zenith distances must be in a manner empirical.
The French tables are less so than any others, from the
method used by Laplace. But the quantity of refraction
varies so much from some unexplained cause, the heights of
the barometer and thermometer remaining the same, that
observations below 80° can be of little use. This irregularity
IS very manifest at 80° 45* in the observed refractions of
Capella below the pole. Sixty-five observed refractions of
this star are given, and compared with those computed from
the formula.

Forty-two observed refractions of x Lyrac below the pole,
(zen. dist. 87° 4^',) are also given. In these the irregu-
larities of refraction are very considerable. The mean of the
observed refractions serves for shewing that refraction is
greater than would result from a density decreasing uni-
formly, and less than would result from a uniform tem-

VOL. XII. N

82 "

perature. The mean also serves as a criterion of the accu-
racy of the French and of other tables at this zenith distance.

Investigation of the Jluxional equation for refraction.

Let V RP T be the path of a ray of light refracted at
P and R, and let CO be perpendicular to TP produced.

(Fig.)

Let the apparent zenith distance HVR =6*

C V the radius of the earth = a

CR = r'
CP = r
The density of the air at P = §
The density at the surface V =(f)
The height of an uniform atmosphere at F = I
Let m : 1 represent the ratio of the sine of incidence to
the sine of refraction, when light passes from a vacuum into
air of the same density as that in VR.

k' : 1 the same ratio for air of the density of that in PR,
and k : 1 the same ratio for air of the density of that in TP
Then it readily appears that
sin. VRC : sin. CRP:: k' :m
sm. C PR : sm. CPT ::k:k'

• The same quantities are denoted by the same' letters which Laplace has used (chap.
I. liv. 10. torn. 4. M6c, c^l.)

83
Consequently

asin.CVR=r's\n. VRC =^ — sin. CRP=.-^ s\n.RPC

m tn

= -^ sin- OPC.

Hence sin. OPC =-,;;: %\r\. $. (i)

This equation is evidently true, whatever be the cumber
of points of refraction between P and F, and therefore is true
when FRP is a continued curve as in atmospherical refrac-
tion.

The refraction H, that takes place between P and V =
the inclination of the lines P T and R V. Hence

By equation (1) OC = j- sin. 0.

The refractive force of air is as its density, and the refrac-
tive force in TP is also as >f * — 1, (vid. Newton's Optics, book
3, Prop. 10. Horsley's edition, vol. 4, p. 171.)

Therefore let 6 ^ = A;* — i, h being a constant quantity
Then k=VT±Tf and m == ^/ T+T(f)

Hence OC=a sin. 6 ^'+^(>>

^^ l+bf — 'LL sin. d 1 + 4 (p))

and OP =r ' , ^ —-^

Therefore Ji' = g-

2{l + fi,) r v/l + *f- — 8in.«9(l+6(f)) _ (2)

N 3

This is Jyaplace's fundamental equation (3) vid. Mec. Cel.
torn, 4, \). 244. b here corresponding to -^ iu Laplace's
formula.

2. The integral of this equation from g = (f ) to § = 0
gives the atmospherical refraction required. It is obvious
tliat to obtain the complete integral, it is necessary to know
the relation between r and §, or the law of diminution of the
density of the atmosphere. This is at present unknown ;
but notwithstanding, we can approximate sufficiently to the
value of R for all values of ^ less than about 80°.

From the zenith to 74° zenith distance the result is the
same whether we approximate to the integral, without know-
ing the relation of r and §, or whether we assume any given
relation, and reduce equation (2) to a convenient form for
fipding the integral.

Also by assuming two certain laws of variation of density
we may obtain two integrals, one of which must give the re-
fraction greater than the truth, and the other less. We find
that as far as 80° 45', * these refractions do not differ by one
second, therefore a mean of the two must always give the
refraction true within half a second so far from the zenith.

* The apparent zenith distance of the bright star, Capella, when below the pole, is
in this latitude =i80''45', and having made many observations of this star S. P, I have
taken that zenith distance as a limit.

Jipproximate integration of the Fluxional Equation.

3. Let Q represent the refraction that would take place if
the surface of the earth were a plane, and the different strata
of air parallel thereto, in which case the ratio of a to r
would be the ratio of equality. Therefore equation (2)

— pi sin. e ^ I ^b (p)

feecomes Q = ^Trb7T7T^f^^^^^T(^)^^7T=^ ^ (3)

Hence R ^ J^V^/-izr_(JL±^'^) ) ^"lll-

r ■v/ I -f i p _ /i ^- i (p) \ ^ sin. « 9^

Let-^=1~. W

:w ^, • _ Qji— «)

Then JR — -j======-— ———.-— -^ rr— (5)

'1 ^bf~n-\-b{f)\ sin. ^9

or jR = Q (1 — s) (1 — s tan. ■= ^) = Q — -^^ neglecting the

second and higher powers of s, also §, (§) and their powers*
It is obvious that for the part of the atmosphere which
makes the refraction sensible, 5 must be very small.

By equat. (3)

Q = — -J /> p. tan. 0 neglecting §>, (§) and their powers.

• Hence ii = Q + f^rh~ nearly. (6)

Now/^s= gs— /gs = is—f~~ <by equat. 4.)

Let p = the pressure of a column of superincumbent air
of a given base, at the distance r from the centre. Then the.
pressure of a particle of air being measured by its magni-
tude, density and gravity, supposing tlie gravity at the sur-
face represented by unity

f'ra*

Ilence R = Q + (§8+^) l^-t Constant,
when /i = 0, Q and s = 0 and p = I (§),

Therefore constant = _*illi^® = — {m^-i) itan.s
Anereiore constant — ^^ ^^^ , ^ — ^ „ cos. ' e

<Jonsequently the whole fluent from g- = (|) to ^ = 0 is
R == Q — (m'— I) itan.i bccausc w is nearly = unity

M ^ Q — ijUzilUJ^Hd. (7)

a COS. * 9

This expression as will be shewn farther on can be easily
reduced to that of Laplace (M6c. c61. torn. 4. p. 268.) But it
remains to shew how far from the zenith it can be used with-
out inducing an error greater than a small fraction of a
second.

4. The principal part Q of this expression is, it is evident,
the deviation of a ray of light refracted at a given incidence
6 from air of the density (g) into a vacuum, and hence is en-
tirely independent of the variation of density in the atmos-
phere. When mis known Q is known. The method of find-
ing m will be considered hereafter.

The seconds in the latter part of the expression =
(;„— 1 ) tan. 9 ^ rp^ compute this quantity it is necessary ta

a COS. * 9 stti. I *■ A ^ ,1

know 7/?, / and a but not with much precision.

If we take & = 80' and use, for the present, round numbers,

^ I • 1 r>r\f\c> „J ^ Smiles I (m — I) Itan.Q ■, .,,

lakmff w = 1,0003 and— = -rr— = -— -, i rr-^—r, = 14

o ' a 4000 800 a cos. • d sm. \"

nearly. The terms which have been neglected, must obvi-
ously be much less. The limit may be thus computed.

Let the equations (S) and (5) of the last article be ex-
panded, neglecting products of three dimensions of s, f and
(^) and we shall obtain

(0-f))

Now of the terms that compose the factor of ^ ''''"', the

'^ 2 COS. » r

first 5 has already been considered and found not to produce
in integrating a quantity greater than a few seconds, as far as
^=80° ; therefore after integration, the 2d and 4th on account
of the smallness of b (§) and b § must be quite insensible; but

the third— i^ s ' tan. ' 6, will produce a term f _ ^f^"'^""''? =«

S fbs^ tan. ^6 ^ 3 p 6 s'stan. ^ g .

T7os7^ if 2co:i. » e

The law of decrease of the density of the atmosphere is

between that which a uniform temperature gives, and that of

the density decreasing uniformly, as will be shewn further

■on. The true value of the above integral, wiU therefore he

between the values deduced from an uniform temperature
and an uniform density.

(1) For an uniform temperature. The density on this hy^
pothesis is as the compressing force, and we have the well
known equation

( — -1 ) -f

^ = (^) c ^ where c = 2,7 12S &c.

or f = (f) c

/_ as

^ ssc= — — sc — -re + «» trom s = o
Therefore from s = o to s == i and from g = {§) io § = o

—a

^_j2illi«i^=Hllll^- il having taken c ~= o on

»/ 4co«. »8 '2 COS.' 9 a* =»

account of jts extreme smallness, it being = — __ —

I \ oOO

V 2,7128^

whence the term in question produces a quantity in seconds=

S I - {m—\)tan. ^9

(I " CO*. * 9 MM. 1

Taking tf = 80° 45', — and m as before

this quantity = 2",60
Taking fi = 74'

It a= 0", 16 a quantity not requiring notice.

(2) If the density of the air decrease uniformly, it wiU
be proved that

s == llLzJL ^ IL nearly
if) «

R^»o^ /• ^fl'^'t""-'^ _ /• 3?btan.3Q f (f)—p) Y I'
ncnLt,J T^~Q y~~ COS.' 6 ^ if) ^ a'

= [from ? = 0 to ^ = a] 'M^tlx^ = [ia seconds]

2 (j«— 1 ) ; » fare. 3 fl

a ' COS. * 9 si)i. l"

Taking ^ = 80° 45' this quantity = r',73. Consequently
the true value of fUhlI1^<^ is between 2",60 and i",73

c/ 4 COS. * 80° 45' ' "

and therefore the mean cannot err quite half a second from
the truth, and so the following formula may be considered
as giving the refraction as far as 80° 45' true to less than half
a second, viz.

Refraction = Q - S'!!ii}lL^±± + lin-zllLl''±lI, (7)

a COS. « e sin. 1" 2 a * cos. * 8 sin. V ^' ^

The third term is insensible when ^ is less than 74° and the
second and third insensible when 0 is less than 40°

It is evident that the two first terms must be derived from
assuming 0711/ law of variation of density, and then investi-
gating the quantity of refraction as far as these terms. The
following investigations in different hypotheses of density may
be considered useful.

VOL. XII. o

V 0 + %) .UHi UiH

Hypothesis of uniform density.

5 Let CR be the radius of the uniform atmosphere, the
height of which is / (vid. Fig.)

^ = angle of incidence at the point R; t = VRC^ then

ref. iR') =^ O' — t, and -~ sin. 6 = sin. t = ^^- (1)

Hence am sin. ^ = (a+0 sin. (/ + E) (2)

but supposing the surface of the earth a plane

ms'm.6 = sin. (^ + Q) (3)

Hence sin. ^ + E) = ""' ^'+J^ (4)

making Z, ^ and R to vary, in order to apply Taylor's

Theorem.

'^ ' Byequat. (4)

O+R) cos. (t+R) = -_ ~/ I ^» sin. (^+Q)

By equat. (I)

f G0S.4 ^ ""' i' . sin. ^

a(l+__)

Hence computing R+R + 8cc. making R= Q, t==6 -^o
and then — = -^, we have by Taylor's Theorem

R = Q _ I- ( tan. (^+Q) — tan. ^ ) + &c. (5)

But tan. (^ + Q) = tan. & + -^^ + &c.

—I

s=— — — —

Also making m and Q vary in equation (3)
We get by help of Taylor's Theorem
Q = Qn — 1) tan. 6 &c.

Hence substituting in equal. (5)

li == Q (_w— ) tan. ^^ ^^^ found before in art. 3.

^' a COS. ^ 9

Hypothesis of density decreasing uniformly.

Q. 13y the density decreasing uniformly is understood, that
the density is as the distance from the highest part of the
atmosphere. It is obvious that in this hypothesis, not taking
into consideration the variation of gravity, the height of the
atmosphere will be double of that of an uniform atmosphere
of an uniform gravity. And it is also obvious that the effect
of the variation of gravity can be but small. Lest however
there should be any doubt on this head, it will be safer to
investigate the height of the atmosphere on this hypothesis,
gravity being supposed to vary.

Let this height = t

the pressure at any height z =p

the pressure at the surface = (p)
a, /, g &c. as before.

Then p == 7^-7x1-} the gravity at the surface being re-
presented by unity.

o 2

On this hypothesis.

- Therefore^ = ^^,1^
and by integration,
/. = Mil. + qiL h. log. ia+z-) + -7^, + comt.

Hence this integral from z == I' to z = o gives

The right hand side of this equation being expanded ac- '
cording to the powers of — there results

ip) = (f) (^ - £- &^-)

but (p) = (?) ;

Hence is easily deduced I' = ^l -h y^ nearly

Having obtained I' we immediately deduce by equal, (i)
the relation between § and r on this hypothesis,

Whence -^ = 1 + ^-^ (^ + -^) or regarding

only one dimension ot — '— =1 ^^ x a ^ '

11
or _1_ = (l±h-\ 6(r)a 5 being introduced to form the

r V1+6CpJ/

factor 6 f .

''•Let l + ig= X, 1 + i (f ) = (*) and jii^ = /
Then equat. (2) of art. 1 gives
]^ _ — XX sin. 6 (x) ^

2 {x) -^ x\/ x--(llflL sin.' S

2/- 3

— XX Sin. t*

(x)^^

-i£=iiW ; 2/-1

This by integration gives

R = L_ (Circ. Arc. rad. 1 and sin. = (^)««.« ) +

constant.
When R = 0, ? = (e)
Therefore constant = ^yr-^ 6.

Hence the integral from ^ = (f) to ^ = o gives

13 _ ^ & — -L- CCirc. Arc. rad. 1 and sin, =

( i+Mp))-'
or nearly

""•! — = sin. (^ — (2/— 1) R)

This is equivalent to Simpson's Rule, page 58, Math.
Dissert.

By the well known analogy between the sum and difF. of
the sines of two arcs and the tangents of the i sum, and
T difF, the equat. (3) gives

Tan. ^ R = i-( Mzzlj b (J) ta„. {J - -£=1 R) («
orR=i-(,)tan.(*-(j|l,-i-(R) =

From equation (5) we may obtain the same conclusions as
in art. 3. '

For if the surface of tlie earth were a plane, equation (5)
would become

Q = {m — 1) tan. (^+ \ Q) nearly

Also because R and Q are very nearly equal at all zenith
distances less than 80°. By equat. (4)

R = (m— 1) tan. (^ + iQ— /Q).

From this equation it readily appears that

R= (m-l)tan. (^+i-Q) ^\IS—

Therefore R = Q (^-i)^J°"-fl, as before in art. 3.

^ a COS. * S

^ ■-.'■. .

^ ^The formula used by Bradley \% R=.k tan. (9 — nR). He determined n from
the comparison of the horizontal refraction, and the refraction at a given altitude. This
would be exact if the density of the atmosphere decreased uniformly. But k and
thence n may be determined by direct experiments on the refractive force of air, and
also by observations of circumpolar stars at zenith distances not greater than 80°. With
these values oik and n the refractions at the horizon and low altitudes may be computed,
and are not found to agree with observations, therefore the density of the atmosphere
does not decrease uniformly.

7. Remark. This last conclusion might have been very
easily deduced from equat. (6) art. 3; but the above investi- '
gation has been used for the sake of deriving the formulas of
Simpson and Bradley.

By equat. (4) art. 3 s = 1 — —

Therefore, by equat. (2) art. 6,s= IfizLLx H.
Hence by equat. (6) art. 3.

Q b I (p) tan. 9 __ q (m — \)ltan 9

^ '2 a COS. ^9 ^ a cos. > 9 '

Hypothesis of an uniform temperature.

8. By the equat. (6) art\ 5 we; also derive the same Cbh-
clusion on the hypothesis of an uniform temperature, in which
case, as has been stated art- 4*

—as '•: '; { v^ , ^ as

f = (f) c ' or /J = — f- (i) G ^
Hence by equation (6) art. 5.

/' As

^ 0 c - — f'''^=(froms=otos=l)

2 COS. ^ 9

before.

lU)itanV-'iJ}^ _, ,. ^ _ n — fcl>iifl! as

Reduction of the formula for refraction to one convenient for
computation. — Comparison with Laplace's formula.

9. From the equation which takes place, supposing the
surface of the earth a plane.
Viz. m sin. 6 = sin. C^'+Q)
We obtain, making m constant,
m sin. ^ = Q cos. (^-HQ)

0 = Q cos. (^ + Q)— Q ' sin; (^+Q)
Hence making Q = 0 and then w = m — 1 we have by
Taylor's theorem

Q = (m— 1) tan. 6 + JH^JH- tan. ^ ^ + &c.

taking m— 1 = ,0003 and 6 = 80'. 45'

(in — 1) ' tan. ^ 9 n't 1

^Tin. 1" '

the following terms are therefore insensible.
Hence substituting in equat. (7) art. 4.
We obtain for all values of 6 less than about 80°.45'

R == (>»— 1) t<^n. fl {m—\)ltan.Q , 5 (m—\) I ' tan. ^ 6

Im. V a COS.'' 9 sin. 1'' 2 a- cos. ^ 9 sin, 1"

(ni—\) ' tan. 3 ^ /-JN

+ 2«"». 1''

The two last terms are insensible except when 0 is

nearly 80'.

10. The formula of Laplace (p. 268. tom. 4. Mec. celest.)

in seconds of a degree = -^i—[^i A + ——g >

in whicli « =: -l^M- = i^^^'>

But '^''^'^ = "''~^

Therefore expanding "^^^ by the powers of m — 1

« = (w— 1) — i (m— 1) ' &c.
substituting this value for ctin Laplace's formula. „o,r^,

-n_/? (»i — 1 ) tan, fl (w — 1) I toM. & (m — I) « <flK. 3 9 ,

* "~ wi. 1' a COS.* 9 sin. t" ' 2 «». 1" ' ■■* ^

same as equation (i) article 9, excepting the term there in-
troduced to make the formula applicable as far as ^ =
80 ".45/

Value of ^li, and of — -Tables of Refraction.

11. The refractive force of air being assumed proportional
to its density, the value of tn is variable, and its changes are
known by the variations of the barometer and thermometer.

Let m be the value of m when the height of the baro-
meter = 2^,60 inches, and the height of Farenheit's thermo-
meter =?= 50°. Let also b represent the height of the baro-
raeter, and t the height of the thermometer corresponding

t^P ^"" .ftw bauo] XI r .iifi i! ao-fo't'o7ijo

j^. It appears by the results of the experiments of Dal ton
and Gay Lussac, tliat a column of air denoted by unity at
the temperature of 32' of Farenheit becomes l,37Ji at the
voi. XII. r

temperature of boiling water. In fact this agrees nearly with
Mayer's conclusions made long before. It becomes there-
fore for t degrees of the thermomeicr = 1 +,002083 (J — 3'2)
It is not probable that the ratio of expansion is sensibly
changed at different heights of the barometer within the
limits of its usual variation. That is the ratio of the volum&s
at 32° and 212° is the same when the barometer is 58t inches
as when 30i inches.

The increase of height in the barometer from the expan-
sion of mercury? by increase of temperature may be consi-
dered To^o - for every degree of the thermometer.

Hence
m — 1 : m' — 1 : : density of air bar. b and therm, t : density
bar. 29,60 and therm. 50° : : b x j i __ (^_50) x ,0001)

X 1,0375 : 29,60 x ( 1 + ,002083 (f— 32))
Thereforewi— l = (m'— l)x 2^ x (1— (^— 50),000l)x

1,0375 ,

1+,0020«3 (<— 32)

The quantity (m' — 1) may be deduced from the experiments
of Biot and Arago (Mem. Inst. tom. 7) ^^l^o have most
carefully repeated the experiments of Ilawksby, or who ra-
ther by a different process, have accurately determined the
refractive force of air. They have found when the height of
barom. = 0,76 metre and centesimal therm. = 0 that is barom.
29,93 inches and F. thermometer = 32° that
w— 1 = ,0002946.

rj , , ,0002946 X 29,60 nnrtoono

Hence m— 1 = i,ooi8 x 1,0375 x 29193 = .0002803

And J:±=L = 57',82.

The height of an uniform atmosphere is not affected by the
variation of the barometer, and therefore, if t represent the
height of an uniform atmosphere, the thermometer be-
ing 50°

7 J, l-{- ,00208 (t— 32)

I — IX j-^3j^

v
a very accurate value of — is not required. If we take

I' = 5 miles and the semidiameter of the earth = 4000 miles
— = ,00125. This in fact is sufficiently accurate.

But it will be more exact to take ^ == 5,095 miles and the
semidiameter of the earth = 3979 miles, and then — =

^j22L = ,00128.
3979

It is evident that the third and fourth terms of the value of

the refraction in equat. (1) art. 9- cannot be sensibly affected

by the variation of ;«, and therefore its mean value may be

used as to these terms.

Hence substituting for '^^, and — in equat. (1) art. 9.

Ave have

Refractions -^-oo^^'-^j:^ x (l_,000l{^-50)) ^-^^^ x

57^82 tan. ^--A_ x 0",0739 ,^, + 0",000238 ^^ +

0^0080 tan. ' 6.

ICO

It is worthy of notice that the second term is independent
of the thermometer, this circumstance enables us to put the
three last terms into a very convenient table, the a.rguments
of which are the zenith distance and height of the baro-
meter.

12. The above expression for atmospheric refraction is en-
tirely independent on astronomical observations.

The French tables are derived from observations of cir-
cumpolar stars. By these tables the refraction at 45° =
57",57 when the barometer shews 29j60 and Farenheit's ther-
mometer-50° Hence by equat. (1) art. 9« ; :,•!;; i^\;U;
57",57= ^^^^ (1-— ) = -^(0,99744).

' ' • sill. i. ^ a ' sin.V \ '''•^ • /

Therefore '4^ = 57^72.

sin. \

Ey c25 observations of circumpolar stars made by myself
with the ei«ht feet astronomical circle (vid. art. 14.) I de-

duce '^ = 57'',56.

;j •;; sin. 1'/ ' '

• Thus the value of 'i=^ by the French tables is between the
values resulting from direct experiment and from my observa-
tions. 1 am inclined to give the preference to the result from
direct experiment for reasons afterwards mentioned. But the
difference between this result, and that from the French tables
is so small that no inconvenience can occur in adopting the
French tables. Thus, bar. 29,60 inches, and Farenheit's
therm. 60"-

101

Zenith
distance.

45
50
60

Refraction
deduced
from the .
experiment.

57.7
08,7
99,7

157,3
198,6

Refraction by

the French

Tables.

57^6
68,6
99,4

157,0
198,2

.y\

Therefore, as it is of considerable importance, particularly
with a view of comparing observations made in different
places, that the same refractions should be generally used,
no objection, I apprehend, can be made to the general
adoption as far as about 80° of the French refractions which
are now so well known,

13. Perhaps the following tables deduced from the above
formula, may be considered rather more convenient in many
instances than the French tables; they will certainly furnish
a useful check. The advantage they afford is derived from
the faciiity with which the computation can be made by help
of tables of logarithms and of logarithmic tangents to four or
five places of figures, such as are in the " tables requisite to
be used with the nautical ephemeris." By these the log. tan-
i>ent of the zenith distance can be taken out at once, and the
inconvenience of proportioning for the minutes of zenith dis-
tance avoided, which is greater than the new inconvenience
occasioned by the second table. Hence the tables here given

102

may be considered more convenient for observations of the
sun, moon, and planets.

In computing these tables 57",72 was substituted in the above
formula instead of 57",82, and therefore the refraction deduced
from these tables will agree with those deduced by the French
tables.

103

TABLES FOR RETRACTION.

Table 1.

Table 2, Barometer.

Far. !
Therm.

o I

Logarithms.

Far. 1
I'herm.

o 1

Logarithms.

Far.
Therm.

Logarithms

0.3283
0.3273
0.3263

34
35
36

0.3048
0.3039
0.3030

58
59
60

0.2827
0.2818
0.2809

13
14

0.3253
0.324-3
0.3233

37
38
39

0.3020
0.3011
0.3001

61
62

0.2800
0.2791
0.2782

0.3223
0.3213
0.3203

40
41
42

0.2992
0.2983
0.2974

64
65
66

0.2773
0.2764
0.2755

19
20
21

0.3193
0.3133
0.3173

43
44
45

0.2965
0.2956
0.2946

67
68
69

0.2746
0.2737
0.2728

22
2+

0.3163
0.3154.
0.3144

46
47
48

0.2937
0.2928
0.2919

70
71

0.2720
0.2711
0.2703

0.3134
0.3124
0.3114

,50

0.2910
0.2900
0.2891

73
74
75

0.2694
0.2685
0.2677

28
29
30

0.3105
0.3095
0.3086

52
53
54

0.2881
0.2872
0.2863

77
78

0.2668
0.2660
0.2652

32
33

0.3076
0.3067
0.3058

55
56

0 2854
0.2845
0.2836

79
80
81

0.2644
0.2636
0.2627

-L . —

Z. D.

28,50

29,00

29,50

30.00

30,50

'■

10,5

10,7

10,9

11,1

11,*

8,1

8,3

8,5

8,7

8,9

6,3

6,4

6,6

6,7

6,9

5.1

5,2

5,3

5,4

5,8

4,1

4,2

4,3

4,4

4,5

3,4

3,5

3,6

3,7

3,0

3,1

3.1

3,2

2,5

2,6

2,1

2,2

2,2 i

',8

1,8

1,9

1,5

1,6

69
68

1,3

1.3

1,4

1.2

1,2

1,0

0,9

0,8

0,3

0,7

0,6

0,<5

0,6

0,5

0,.5

0,4

0,4 1

0,3

0,2

0,1

0,0

Logarithm in Tab. I. + log. barom. + log. tan. zenith dist. = log. ap-
proximate refraction.

i\ppr. ref. — Number Tab. 2. = refraction.

Example. Zenith dist. 71°. 26', barom. 29,76 inches and therm. 4S°.

Log. Tab. 1

Log. barom. -'^

Log. tan. 7 1 ".26

Ref. 173,4 =:2'.53",4

Log. approx. ref. 175"4 - 2.2439

0.2965
1.4736
0.4-738

Appi'. ref. 175' ',4
Tab. 2. 2, 0

104

The Co-latitude of the Observatory of Trinity College, Dublin,
deduced from Observations of Circumpolar Stars, by different
Tables of Refraction.— Observed Refractions of Capella^ be-
low the Pole.

14. Comparisons of the Co-latitude as determined by stars
near to, and remote from the pole, serve for a criterion of
the accuracy of the tables of refraction used.

In the following table the co-latitude is determined by
four different methods of computing the refraction.

1. In column A, by the formula 56", 9 tan. (^— 3, 2 ref.)

bar. 500

^ 29,6 ^ ^50 + therm. '

2. In column B, by the formula d&',9 tan. (^—3 ref.) >;

bar. 400

29,6 350 + therm.

3. In column C, by the preceding tables, which give the
same results as the French tables.

4. In column D, by the value of "^ = 57",82 as de-

' •' sin. 1

duced from experiment.

The second formula is Bradley's.

The first formula is what appeared to me by my observa-
tions in 1 809, to give the refraction at low altitudes more ex-
actly than Bradley's formula, and also to give the effects of
the changes of temperature more exactly.

105

But both these formulae must be considered empirical. W<i
are entirely unacquainted with the law of variation of den-
sity at different heights, and therefore as has been shewn we
cannot deduce from theory a formula of refraction that will
serve much below 80°. It has been shewn indeed, art. 6. that
if the density decrease uniformly, the refraction may be
expressed by a similar formula, and that above 80° the re-
fraction will not be sensibly changed by any law of variation
of density ; but then if 56",9 be the constant quantity, the
co-efficient of refraction must be 4,l4,* that is the mean ref.
= 56",9 tan. (^ — 4,14 ref.) Therefore the two formula used
in columns A and B are certainly inexact for all zenith dis-
tances less than about 80°. For greater zenith distances,
the first formula will perhaps be found as exact as any other
now known, at least as far as 87° 40'. But I do not attach
much importance to it. I had deduced it before I was so
well convinced as I am at present of the little value of ob-
servations near the horizon, and I may add of the impossi-
bility of investigating an exact formula.

The mean of column C gives 36'. 36'. 46",54 for the co-
latitude of the observatory or 53 23 13,46 for the lati-
tude, which I conceive cannot possibly err | of a second
from the truth.

* For if -^—jn ss 56",9 m— 1 -: ,0002758, and therefore ^(m-i) T =^ *'**

vid. art. 6. equat. (5)'

VOL. XII. t Q

106

The co-latitudes are each determined by a mean of the number of
observations of each star above and below the pole as annexed.

Names of Obs.
Circumpolar i above
Stars Pole.

Obs. 1 Co-lat.

below 1

Pole ' A

Co-lat.
B

Co-lat.
C

Co-lat.
D

Polaris

^ Ursae min.

/S Cephei

62
20
10

74 ! 36 . 36 . 45,65
18 j 46,18
10 ! 45,43

30.36.45,71
46,42
45,64

36*. 36. 46" 19
46,77
46,37

36°. 36, 46,26
46.85
46,46

a UrssB maj.
a Cephei
j3 Ursae maj.

10
10
21

46,91
45,56
45,49

47,19
45,71
45,^95

' 47.33
46,42
46,62

47,44
46,53
46,75

! Ursae maj. 24
a Cassiopeae 21
f Ursae maj. 8

23 45,21

r 23 45,90

10 45,10

45,52
45.81
45,30

46,22
46,64
46,00

46,36
46,79
46,15

7 Ursae maj.
7 Draconis
« Ursae maj,
a Persei

18
32
10
10

■

21
32
10
10

45,81
45,93
44,90
44,53

46,18

46,69

.. . 4.5,40

44,35

46,85
47.08
46,20
46,29

46,90
47,27
46,40
46,51

Mean 1 2.56

269 36 . 36 . 4J,58

36.36.45,84 1 36.36.46,54

By 226 observations in 1808 and 1809 I had deduced
for column A 36°. 36'. 45",65
B 45 ,85

-i C 46 ,54

15, Let c r: the correction of 57",82, that is, let

w'— 1

an. I"

= 57",82-i-c,

then by comparing the co-latitudes in column D determined by Po-
laris, jS Ursae mi noris and j8 Gephei with the same determined by the
other ten stars, we have

107

36°. S6'. 46",52 + ,82 c = 56. 36. 46,71 f- 1,56 c. Tlie
co-efficients of c are o+)tained from the tangents of the re-
spective zenith distances.

0" 19

This equation gives c ^ ^T = r 0",26

and therefore T~-- = 67^56'. By which, the mean refrac-

tion at 45° = 4=i- f 1 ~ ^Jl) = 57",42

Now from the number of observations used, it cannot be
doubled that the above conclusion is free from the errors of
observation. The only error by which it can reasonably be
supposed affected, is that arising from errors of division.

It is difficult to state the limit of error from hence arising,
but it wdl readily appear that much dependence cannot be
had on a correction so small as that which I have deduced.
For each star or each co-latitude, 12 points of the circle are
used so that the quantity 36°. 3&. 46",52, the mean of the
results of the three first stars is affected by the mean error of
36* points of divisions of the circle. This mean error must
certainly be very small. Yet it is not improbable that it may
amount at least to 0",15. ,

The error of the quantity S6°. 36'- 46",7l must be smaller,
being only affected by the mean error of 120 points, yet it
is not improbable it may amount to 0",04 and so the whole
quantity 0",19, the numerator of the value of c, will be ac-
counted for,

Q 2

108

Tims it ap|>ears that observations of circumpolar stars are
not adapted for obtaining extreme accuracy* and that tli^
quantity of mean refraction at 45" so determined cannot rea-
sonably be depended on to less than a quarter of a second.

The direct experiment for determining the refractive force
of ait may be made independently of the divisions of an in-
strument. The whole quantity of refraction is ascertained,
instead of the differences of refractions as in circumpolar
stars. There are also other sources of accuracy by which the
result may berendered very exact.

For the above reasons, the determination -7— n;= 57",82 or

' ««. 1" '

the mean refraction at 45" (bar. 29, t>0 and therm. 60) = 57,67

appear to me more to be relied on.

16. In deducing the above value of ^^^-^ from the observations
of circumpolar stars, 1 only used such stars as were less than
80" from the zenith when below the pole.

It is well known to those conversant in observations made
with good instruments that near the horizon an irregularity
in refraction hitherto unexplained shews itself. This com-
mencing even at less zenith distances than 80°, is at first very
small, but increases to a very considerable irregularity as we
approach the horizon.

The bright star Capella being within the limits of this irre-
gularity has not been used for the co-latitude. A considerable
number of observations of this star below the pole have how-
ever beenvmade by me, which may serve for two purposes.

104

(1) To shew the effects of the abovementioned irregularity
ot refraction, by which it appears that at zenith distances not
greater even than 80°, no use can be made of observations for
the nicer purposes of astronomy.

(2) As it is reasonable to suppose this unexplained irregu-
lariTiy* will disappear from a mean of a great number of ob-
servations, this star, which is just at the limit where the
quantity of refraction ceases to be independent of the vari-
ation of density, may also serve as a criterion of the exactness
of the value of "'"~;. or of the quantity of mean refraction.

The refraction observed and the refraction computed by the
formula in Art. 11. are placed by the side of each other, and
also the correction of the computed refraction to give the ob-
served refraction. This correction is often far beyond the limit
of the error of observation, and is to be attributed to the above-
mentioned irregularity of refraction.

* The hypothesis upon which refractions are computed is that the different strata of air
/ are concentrical with the earth's surface, circumEtances may he easily imagined to affect
this hypothesis, with respect to low stars.

lie

■yfhs'.viicfractions of Capelta below the Pole.

Time of
Observations.

Bar.

Ther.
int.

Conijjut.
llelrac.

Observed
Kefrac.

Corr.

comp.

Time of
Observation.

Bar.

Ther.
int.

Comput.
Kefrac.

Observed
llefrac.

Corr.

comp.

ref.

I SOS, July 28

Aug. 1 1

29,50
29,51
29,97-

63
61

67 -;

i S0,3
31,9
32,6

5 28,8
29,1
31,3

— \",5
-2,8

— 1,3

1811, Jan. 23
27
28

30,33
29,40
29,32

27
24i

6 s"4
5 56,3

57,5

/ //
. » 5,2
5 59,S
55,3

+ 1,8
+ 3,5
— 2,2

24.

Nov. 23

29,9 .S ■

29.16

29,84

62i

33.4
20,8
49,7

33,9
26,2
42,4

+ 0,5 1

— 0,6

— 73

July 1
3
6

29,64
29,49
29,78

• 64i
54i
61i

30,7
36,5
3t,4

31,6

42,9
43,7

+ t),9
+ 6,4
+ 9,3

Dec. 4.

1 809, Jan. 20

29,77
29,30
29,31

44
31
30

47,4.
52,1

52,7

43,5
47,8
48,3

— 3,9
-4,3

— 4,4

9
14
16

29,8 1
29,42
29,46

64i
581
57i

32,5
32,4
34,6

35,8
32,6
36,2

+ 3,3
+ 0.2
+ 2,6

22
May 29
June 14-

29,33
29,^0
29,70

27
54
54

55,6
36,7
38,9

48,5

4:;,o

41,6

— 7,1

+ 2,7

17
20
21

29,46
29,80
29,73

63t

33,3
33,2
32,1

34,7
35,3
29,4

+ L4
+ 2,1

-2,7

17
July 8

29,72
29,61
29,90

55
56
63

38,4
S6,5
34,6

38,8
38,6
39,1

+ 0,4
+ 2,1
+ 4,5

+ 1,2
+ *.6,
— 3,3

22
23
26,

29,78
29,83
30,00

28,67
2.S,S7
29.75

62
65i

34,8
34,5
34,1

36,6
40,1
37,5

+ 1,8
+ 5,6
+ 3-4

10
15

29,97
29,88
29,80

63
62i
55i -

35,5
34,7
38,9

36,7
39,3
35,6

Dec. 9

40i

37,2
41,4
50,3

34,0
37,0
*7,1

— 3,2

— 4,4

— 3,2

18
19
23

29,89
20,92
29,71

571

38,4
37,1

34,7

41,0
38,3
35,5

+ 2,6
+ 1,2
+ 0,8

18 29,15

29 29.84

1812, Jan. 4 ! 29,20

451
30i
29i

39,0
68,8
51,9

34,1
54,2

43,7

— 4,9

— 4,6
-8,2

Aug. 22

18 10, Jan. 20

29,19
29,16
29,83

53
55
58i

33,9
32,1
37,2

29,8
30,5
40,0

— 4,1

— 1,6

+ 2,8

Oct. 28

29,42
29,69
29,33

37
37
43i

48,4
51.9
40,1

47,2
50,1
38,1

— 1.2
-1,8

— 2,0

22
23
25

30,12
30,02
29,98

62i

37,2
36,4
39,9

43,«
42 0
42,7

+ 6,4
+ 5,6
+ 2,8

Dec. 9

21
31

29,12
29,48
29,57

36
35
40

50,0
50,7
47.9

46,7
50,6

47,8

— 3,3

— 0,1
-2,1

July I

29,58
29,50
29,73

58
58
59

34,6

33,8
35,7

39,4.

36,7
29,9

+ 'H«
+ ■^■9 1
-^5,8|

1813, Jan. 4
11
18

29,59
29,36
29,88

42
34
36

46,5
50,0
54,7

39,4
42,7
52,0

-7,1

— 7,3

— 2,7

Aug. 14

181 1, Jan. 20

29,24
29,29
29,60

58
58
37

.30,4
31,4
51,5

25,2
27,3
42,9

— 5,2

— 4,1
-8.6

30,02
30,15

57.2
6 3,5

. 5"'.3
6 3,6

+ 0,1
+ 0,1

The preceding 65 observations give the mean correction
= - 0",49. This would give J:^, == 57",74 and the ref. at

45" =i: 5J",58 very nearly the same as the; French tables, but
this exactness cannot be depended on, even if we supposed
the irregularity of refraction to disappear in the mean, be-
cause the zenith distances of Capella above and below the
pole may be affected by errors of division. If we suppose
the co-laiitude exact, and take the error of the mean of the
six microscopes in each position of Capella = 0",5 and also
take the error of refraction arising from using the mean be-
tween uniform temperature and uniform density = 0",25.
The above correction may become = — (0"49i-l,00+ 0",25)
=-- 1",74

or it may become + 0,76.
•The first will make the ref. at 45' = 57",37
the second - - =57 ,79

These are probably two limits.

•^ 'Limits of Refraction. — Observed Refractions of a- L'yi-iB

below the Pole.

17. It has been stated' in art. 4. tliaCtlie quantity or at-
mospherical refraction is less than would result from an uni-
form temperature in the atmosphere and greater than what
would result from a density decreasing uniformly.

11^2

(t) 'Vhe former readily appears from the equation
lk = ~ art. 1,

For since the temperature decreases as we ascend, it fol-
lows that the satne density takes place at a distance from the
surface greater than in the case of an uniform temperature.
Now the only variable quantity in OC is f, therefore OC re-
maining the same, OP is increased, and consequently R
diminished, therefore refraction ory R is greater in the case
of uniform temperature than in the actual state of the atmos-
phere.

(2) By the annexed observed refractions of a Lyrie, below
the pole, it will appear that the actual refraction is greater
than would take place, did the density of the air decrease
uniformly.

The mean of these 42 observations of « Lyrae below the
pole gives the refraction at the zenith distance 87° 42' 1(/' =
17' ?b",5, the mean of the heights of the barom. =: 29,50,
and the mean of the heights of the therm. = 55'',0.

These heights of the barom. and therm, give, (vid. art. 11.)

!^ = 59",50 and , ^ ., i = 3,803. Hence if the

density of the air decreases uniformly,

113

At 87°. 42'. 10", refraction = 59", 5 tan. (87'. 42^. tO" —
3,803 r)* =16'. 51", 0.

This refraction is less by 35",5 than the mean of the ob-
served refractions. Hence we may safely conclude that the
actual quantity of refraction is between the results from an
uniform temperature and from a density decreasing uni-
formly.

Laplace has shewn the same from the horizontal refrac-
tions computed on each hypothesis, and compared with the
observed horizontal refraction. But it does not appear that
the mean observed horizontal refraction has hitherto been as-
certained with much accuracy.

Laplace has also in the case of uniform temperature in-
tegrated the fluxional equation for refraction, in which he

* This form or r=zk tan. (S — nr) may be readily computed by help of an auxiliary
angle y.

log. tan. y = log. tan. fl -f- log. (i^„fc^„. i„ ) + i log-
then log. r = t log. ^-^^ ^„ + log. tan. \ y

_ , , . . fc t*.n. 8 — ft tan. n r

For h tan. (9 — nr) = -— j— — —

^ ' l+tan.itan.nr

Hence -L-^— ;^— = tan. 9

n«tn. 1''

let taa. iyzzr V y- sin. 1"

then 'Ji!lJl^!L2!L V -~t— tan. y = tan. 9
a ft *«'«• 1

Whence log. tan. y =: tan. 9 4- &c.

&c. &c.

VOL. XII. R

has exhibited a striking specimen of his great mathematical
skill (vid. Mec. eel. torn. 4. p. 246— 253 )

His series is sufficiently convenient for computing the hori-
zontal refraction, but in deducing from it tiie refraction at
87°43'l0" zenith distance, a good deal of calculation is ne-
cessary. I deduce the value of a=,0G02882 for the heights
of the barometer and therm, abovementioned, and then the
six first terms of the series (Mec. eel. torn. 4. p. 251)=
817" + I7r',4 + 50",2 + 17",4 + 6",4 + 2",7 + &c.

The sum of this series must be nearly == 106?".

Therefore we have at zen. dist. 87"42'10", barom. 29,50
and therm. 35°.

Refraction, density decreasing uniformly = 16.'5r'',0
by observation - = 17- 26, 5

uniform temperature - =17.47,0

Hence as far as this zenith distance the refraction differs
only a few seconds from the mean resulting from the two
hypotheses. The difference is far less than what may arise
from the irregularity of refraction.

At the same zenith distance, and same heights of the barom.
and therm.

By the French tables ref. = 17'.21",0

.By Bradley's formula = I7 48, 2

By what 1 considered an
improvement of Brad-
ley's formula vid. art. 14 == 1? 25, 3 ,

1116

Refractions of « Lyra below the Pole.

Time of
Observation

„ Ther.
Barom. .^^_

Ther.
ex.

Zenith
distance
observed

Ee£
observed

Cerr.
French
Tables

1809, Jan. 22

Feb. 18

29,25
30,01
29,78

43i

0 / //

87 42 1,6
42 40,7
42 41,6

17 57,4
17 24.8
17 24,2

4- 23,7
+ 3,4
+ 10,7

TMar. 5

IS 10, Feb. 13

30,09
30,05
28,94.

42i

42 33,0
42 22,1
42 57,0

17 34,7
17 46,2
17 3,1

+ 8,7
4- 26,0
— 3,6

Mar. 17

1811, Jan.l8

30,02
29,62
29,90

32
36
33i

29i

42 5,9
42 31 yO
42 12,2

17 55,6
17 33,4
17 38,1

+ 10,2

4- 9.*

— 0,2

Feb. 3

30,27
29,35

27i

324
2li
SO

41 55,1

41 58,5

42 94,3

17 56,6
17 54,6
17 20,4

4- 9.«

+ 22,7
- 7,7

29,44.

31i

29,24
29,28
29,03

39
39

38
35
34 ■

42 52,5
42 51,2
42 58,4 .

17 3,2
17 4,7
16 58,4

— 2,8'

— 2,3

— 2,6

Dec. 28

1812. Jan. 2

28,91
29,39
29,07

30i

3li

25i
30

43 8,3

42 3,0
42 22,0

16 53,7

17 38,7
17 21,2

— 10,2 i
+ 12,2
+ 6,9

28,95
29,11
29,93

23\
27t
82

26i
23i
31

42 34,0

41 56,2

42 2,1

17 9,5
17 47i6
17 42,6

— 5,8
+ 24,6
+ 0,6

Feb. 7

29,6t
29,18
29,42

.34
39
38

42 1,2

42 36,4
42 27,2

17 47,9
17 19,2
17 26,4

-f 20,7
+ 17,2
+ 13,9

Dec. 22
1813, Jan. 1

29,66
29,64
29,90

36
42i

26t

41 48,0

42 9,1
42 23,0

17 50,7
17 32,7
17 19,5

+ 21,1
4- 9,4
4- 0,7

11
19
26

29,52
30,04.
30,16

36
36
33

31i
32

42 11,8
41 58,2
41 46,2

17 33,2
17 49,2

18 3;2

-f 14,2
+ 12,6
4- 16,1

Feb. 6
15
18

29,40
28,50
29,26

39
40
39

38
38
37i

42 4;, 8

43 24.8
43 0,0

17 5,6
16 29,6
16 55,0

_ 5,1

— 10,0

— 12,0

116

Refractions of a Lyrae below the Pole.

Time of
observation

„ Ther.
Barom, .^^

Ther.
ex.

Zenith
distance
observed

Ref.
observed

Corr.
French
Tables

1813, Feb, 22

Dec. 26

29,2+
30,19
30,01

35i

36i

364
314
34

87 42 52,3

41 55,8

42 21,2

17 3,3
17 43,6
17 18,5

+ 4"o
+ 0,1

— 17,3

31
ISU.Jan. 1
4 ,

29,88
29,69
29,11

35i

26i

334
32i
23

42 1,0
42 21,2
41 59,6

17 40,0
17 20,1
17 42,7

+ 7,5
— 8,4
+ 17,4

22
26
27

29,88
28,95
28,78

21
33

32i

324
304

41 25,7

42 56,2

42 49,8

18 22,2
16 52,8
16 59,4

+ 18,2

— 16,5

— 4,2

29
Feb. 13

28,63
29,67

314
4li

29
39

42 51,5
42 47,1

16 58,4

17 6,3

— 2,1

— 8,4

To the preceding observed refractions of a Lyras S.P. are
annexed the corrections to be applied to the refractions com-
puted by the French tables to give the observed refractions.
These corrections sufficiently point out the irregularities of
refraction at low altitudes.

The French tables from 74" zenith distance to the horizon
may be considered less empirical than any other, since
they are deduced from a formula of Laplace assumed so,
that, partaking both of the arithmetical and geometrical
progressions of variation of density, it gives the diminution
of heat observed in ascending in the atmosphere. Gay
Lussac having ascended in a balloon to a considerable height
found the diminution of temperature nearly as resulted from
Laplace's formula.

117

But from the circumstances of the case there seems to be
no reason lo expect any exact and convenient method of de-
termining the quantity of refraction for low altitudes.

It is not likely the irregularities will be ever submitted to
any law, and investigations respecting formulce for refractions
for zenith distances greater than about 80° may be considered
more curious than useful. For less zenith distances, the
French tables, as it has been a principal object of this paper
to shew, seem as accurate as can be desired.

APPENDIX to the Account of observations made at the ObseV'
vatory of TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN, which appear
to poi7it out an annual Parallapc in certain fixed Stars, 4-c ^c.

By JOHN BRmKlEY, D. D. M. R. I. A. F. R. S. md
Andrews' Professor of Astronomy in the University of Dublin.

Read March 6, 1815.

X HE results from the observations of Arcturus, « Lyrae,
ft Aquilse and a, Cygni made during the last twelve months'
agree sufficiently with the former results, and combined
therewith, may be considered as adding additional weight to
what I have before stated respecting the parallax of these
stars.

, Arcturus.

By 20 observations in May, June and
July, 1814, mean zenith distance,
Jan. 1, 1814. 33«. 13'. 5l",54>+,57p

120

By 20 observations, October, Novem-
ber, December, 1814, mean zenith
distance, Jap. 1, 1814. 53« 15' 5r,60-~^5p

1,26 .;, ,

Combining these observations with the 77 observations be-
fore given, p = 1,1 or the double parallax = 2",2 as before.

The above 40 observations (taking the annual motion in
N. P. D. = + 18,81)

give the mean N. P. D. Jan. 1, 1813 = 69" £0' 19",66
The former determination gives 69 50 19 >S3

-/ Draconis.

By 26 observations in June, July and
August, 1813 and 1814, the mean
zenith distance, Jan. i, 1814, 1». 52'. 17",74

By 32 observations, November, De-
cember, January and February,
1813, 1814 and 1815, the mean ze-
nith distance, Jan. 1, 1814, 1 52 17 ,86

This indicates no sensible parallax, and the argument from
thence derived appears very conclusive. This star passes
the meridian within about half an hour of the passage of

121

a Lyrae, and is not quite 13° distant in declination from it.
Therefore if any unknown cause should occasion an appear-
ance of parallax, and render the observations of a Lyrae in-
accurate, the same ought to affect the observations of y Dra-
conis in a similar way. But the above results shevv that it is
not the case, and consequently afford a powerful argument
that the difference of the zenith distances of a. Lyrs in sum-
mer and winter is occasioned by parallax.

The above 58 observations give the

mean N. P. D. Jan. 1, 1813, 38° 29' 3",o8

By the former determination 3 ,70

« Lj'fSB.

Bj' 20 observations In June, July and
August, 1814, the mean zenith dis-
tance, Jan. 1,18I4 14" 46' lO",87+,78 />

By 20 observations in Decern. 1814,
January and February, 1815, the
mean zenith distance, Jan. 1, 1814, 14 4(5 12,00 — ,78p

Hence p ?p >77ii^ ,:b7=vO":,72.

In computing the above observations the French refrac-
tions were used. In the former computation of theobserva-
tions of a. Lyrs, Bradley's refractions were used. Had ihe
French refractions been used, the parallax, as was observetl,
would have been 2", or p= 1". Combining the forHier'126'

VOL. XII. s

observations with the above 40, p= 0",9 or the doubfopa-
rallax from 166 observations = r',8.

The above 40 observations give' the mean '''

N. P.D.Jan. 1, 1813, 51'2rj'0",94

13 observations in August and September,

*S14 - - 51 23 0,51

The former determination - 51 23 0 84

If we reckon the observations near six o'clock in the even-
ing, we may consider the determination of the parallax of
a Ljr® as resting on 205 observations of that star.

a Aquilas.

I was able to obtain only 10 observations of this star in
1814, near the time when the zenith distance from parallax
appears least, I have therefore joined with these 11 observa-
tions when the zenith distance is near its mean quantity. In
this way the errors of observation have a greater influence
on account of the smallness of the co-efficient of p. The
result * gives a parallax greater thaia before, but being com-
bined with the former one, the conclusion is not materially '
different. It sufficiently establishes the great parallax ot
a Aquilae.

* If tl»e 10 observations only had been used, the result would hare agreed very nearly
mlk the fonner result.

Its

By 24. observations in tfee winter,
.;. mean zenith distance, January 1, ;araoiU

By 21 observations, summer and'
autumn, 1814, mean zenith dis-
.,, tam:e,> Jan. 1. 1814, .ci,i 45' 0' 5",00+,21;,

Hence ;^=-^==:3",5

Combining this result with the result of the 76 observations
before given p = 3,"0, or the double parallax = 6", This re-
suit exceeds the former by half a second, but, as has been
observed, the smallness of the co-efficient of p necessarily
precludes great accuracy.

The above 45 observations (taking the

mean annual motion in N. P. D.

= 9", 12) give the mean N. P. D.

Jan. 1, 1813 = 81° 36' 59",42

The former determination was gi 3g ^p 8^

Of Cygni.

By 12 observations near conjunc-
tion, mean zenith distance, Jan. *

_ ^' ^^*^' - , 8<'45'59"42-,80p

By 10 observations near opposi-
tion, mean zenith distance, Jan.
■''^^*^' - 8 45 58,47 + ,72;»

124

These observations are too few in number to be of much
weight by themselves, but, combined with the former 47 ob-
servations, give p = 0",9 or the double parallax = 1",8. The
former conclusion was 2",1.

The above 22 observations give the

mean N. P. D. Jan. 1, 1813, 45' 2^ 58",06

The former determination was 45 22 58 »34

POLITE LITERATURE.

VOL. XII. *

- AN

• ESSAY

THE SUBJECT PROPOSED

BT -

THE ROYAL IRISH ACADEMY,

" Whether, and how far, the pursuits of Scientific, and Fo-
lite Literature, assist, or obstruct, each other."

If we can direct the lights we derive from the exalted speculations of philosophy
upon the humbler field of the imagination, we may not only communicate to the
taste a sort of philosophical solidity, but we may reflect back upon the severer
sciences some of the graces and elegances of taste, without which the greatest pror
ticicncy in those sciences will always have the appearance of something illiberal.
^ Burke's Introduction to Treatise on Sublime and Beautiful.

Among the many errors of the understanding, by which
the learned have been misled in their conclusions, or dis-
tracted in their attempts at more cautious investigation, few
have been of greater injury to the cause of truth, than the
n)istake of a concomitant for a cause, of a casual for a
necessary connection, and a fortuitous contiguity in point of
time for som£ fixed and established relation in the great sys-

tern of natural dependencies. Cotemporary pliasnoincna we
accustom ourselves either to- refer to one common principle
of causation, or to attribute to the one some degree of influ-
ence on the production of the other i we are naturally pleased
with this order of things to which we ourselves have given
existence, and we veil our rashness in instituting analogies^
under the specious appellations of " love of simplicity," and
" a study to preserve unbroken the general harmony of na-
ture." An error of this kind has for a long time partially
prevailed relative to the subject proposed by the Academ}'
for discussion, arid though in itself it by no means requires
a formal refutation, yet from it's connection with our ques-
tion it derives at present a degree of adventitious import-
ance.

It has been observed, that while science in these latter
ages has soared to a height not only inaccessible but incom-
prehensible to the ancients, Polite Literature still remains in
the neighbourhood of those regions where the remotest anti-
quity had placed her — that while the pensive brow of the
severer Muse has been gradually relaxing into a smile of
greater complacency, the votaries of her more graceful sister
have had but little reason to boast of any cncrease in her
partiality. Hence it has been concluded, that there is sonie
natural repugnance between the two pursuits, and that parti-
cular attachment to one must necessarily be attended by
inferiority in the other. Thus the grand cause of Learning
has been split into factions, and the two presiding deities

been considered not as allies faithfully and perseveringly
united in the dispensation of tlx? blessings of civilisation and
refinement, but as rivals, each jealous of the other's ascend-
ancy, and punishing any particular attention paid to her
competitor by manifest indications of coldness and neglect.

In order to answer this objection, there wilJ be no occasion
to enter into a. minute historical account of their connection
in their origin, progress, and decline in each country, where
their happy influence has been felt : it will be sufficient at
present to mention a few leading facts, from which it may be
seen, that the two pursuits are not in their own nature irre-
concileably averse to each other; and to enumerate some cir-
cumstances, from which we may easily account for their
comparative states in ancient and modern times, without
' having recourse to such a bold and unwarranted hypothesis.
In that twilight state of human existence,, which inter-
venes between the dreary gloom of savage solitude, and the
chearful lustre of civilised society, the poets were the first
who, from their superior elevation of soul, were enabled to
catch the first partial rays of knowledge, as they struggled
through the clouded atmosphere of error and the mists of
superstition. It must, indeed, be confessed that the light,
which they thus contributed to diffuse over the yet unex-
plored paths of learning, was in some degree diverted from
the direct line of philosophical accuracy, and tinged with
the lively and variegated hues of poetry ; their knowledge of
a new star was announced by the deifi^cation of some cele

brated mortal; their altempls to explain celestial phenomena,
or describe the constitution of the universe, were delivered
under allegorical representations; and their morality, instead
of being inculcated in the plain didactic form, was insinuated
in the specious garb of narraiive and of fable. ]3ut, there-
fore, to deny tl>e original union of poetry and philosophy,
would be as unreasonable (says an * old writer), " as to as-
sert that day-light proceeded from some other cause than thp
diffusion of the sun's beams over the surface of the earth.
For if we deliver poetry from the restraints of metre and
versification, and remove the veil of mythological obscurity
in which its sentiments are enveloped, what other difference
will then remain between it and philosophy, than adifierence
as to the dates of their respective origin .''" " During the
earlier ages (continues -f he) the human mind required a
milder species of philosophy, that would calm the restless-
ness inseparable from primitive rudeness, sooth the affec-
tions by the blandishments of harmony, captivate the atten-
tion by interesting fable, and lead mankind, as it were by
the hand, into the paths of knowledge ; in short reason was

* Maximus Tyrius, Dissert. 9. 'Oion "» ns >) tjiv i^!f«v eoWo rl ■nyyia-mro wXrni riXt^ ^Zj iriTTOf
h( y?') >i Toy r,Xiov kVej yn; ^sot-ra «?iXo rl n ijj,t(xy, a-ru rot ra rrs TOitjTixn; 5rpos ^»Xocro(J>iav tyti. KaJ
yaj woilTtxii Tt ~«XXo Er< 1 <Pi\o<ro^ta, T'-f /kev Xf f Ta^a'a; t»i Jt aj/xovia i/^jutT^o;, rn Ji yrjijjiri uv-

•Hi^aivoTffa ;

•}• H ■i'Vj(^ti, wfOTffoJ «• »J»jX«T))i», K*! rm xaXa^Evy Tai'Tiiy wv^uat, iJeito (piXoiro^jaf ftso-jKn;
riM; luu «>f«4TE;a;> ,>! Sta fitvSwy SniJ-ayuyiKTu avrrt), xat ^.iree;i(EipiEtT(ci; \a,^«,vtf d^ tit9(«» tv; itaiitif

then in its infancy, and demanded from its ms'tfuctors such
treatment as children receive from their nurses." We are not
to imagine, that these expressions of the Greek writer are
necessafi'lj confined to moral philosophy, tliough the nature
of the subject, of which he is treating in that dissertation,
prevents him from extending the observation, for (as Mr,
Twining * remarks) the earliest philosophy was natural phi-
losophy, and the earliest vehicle of that philosophy was
verse. ' Oipheus, Hesiod, Parnlenides, Empedocles, and
Thalesj.kte all mentioned by Plutarch as poet-philosophers
of this kind, and Pythagoras is isaid to have written a poem
on the Universe in Hexameters." Bui to return toTyrius —
•f- *' When at length (says he) reason had encreased in strength
and approached to the maturity of manly understanding,
it became filled with incredulity and suspicion, too judicious
to admit the fables without investigation, or approve of the
obscurity in which their signification was involved; then it
was that philosophy was divested of her former decorations;
the pompous train of poetic imagery was dismissed, and the
mystic veil of allegory removed from before her." Yet,
though they tluis became separate, they were still S3'mpa-
thetic existences, they flourished not, but in association,
they appeared uiuted in one common fate and governed by

* Comnienfary on Aristotle's Poetics.

©ne common law, they seemed as mutual moons, each inva-
riably attending the other in its revolutions through the uni-
verse, each deriving its chief lustre, and more resplendent
radiance, from the same inexhaustible source of light and
truth, yet not a little enlivened by the reflex beams of the
other. And although the* genius of the Roman people seemed
averse from such pursuits, every man in the earlier ages of
that state devoting himself particularly to those studies,
which were calculated to procure him political pre-eminence,
and even to the latest period of the Commonwealth the
policy or superstition of the Senate discountenancing the
Grecian .philosophy, yet has Rome produced on a philoso-
phical subject one of the most sublime, and occasionally,
the most harmonious poems in any language; and when
learning began to sink under the overwhelming force of bar-
barism, we fmd Bocthius, one of the latest of Roman poets,
•singing a hynm of consolation to declining philosophy. If
we carry our historical view still farther, we find that in the
gloomy interval of Gothic ignorance, both were equally neg-
^leoted and uncultivated, that these were the ages of phantas-
tic hypotheses and unmeaning quibbles, as well as monkish
rhymes and puny witticisms, and that religion was equally
corrupted by absurd legendary tales, and frivolous stories of
saints and devils, as by the scholastic jargon of metaphysi-

* Fopulo Romano nunquam ea copia fuit, quia prudentissirous quisque maxinie i>«>
gotiosus erat, ingeiiiuni nemo sioe corpore exercebat. Sail. Bel. Cat.

cal theology. Whatever has been said of the original union
of poetry with philosophy may be extended to eloquence ;
for, in the earlier ages of learning, the philosopher and orator
also were united, and it was supposed that their respective
ends would be most effectually accomplished by their co-ex-
istence ; * " Hanc enim perfectam philosophiam semper pu-
tavi, quas de maximis quasstionibus copiose posset et ornate
dicere." After the light of learning was restored, the two
arts continue still associated, those countries which have
been particularly distinguished for their poets, orators, his-
torians, and critics, have also to boast of the most illustrious
names on the records of mathematics and philosophy, whe-
ther natural, moral, or metaphysical. To conclude this
sketch of their connected history, we may say (adopting an
idea of -f Grattan's) that in every country Polite Literature
has rocked the cradle of Philosophy in its infancy, has la-
mented it's decline, and followed it's fall ; that it hailed it's re-
suscitation, when it rose from the tomb of Gothic barbarism,
and has since uniformly accompanied it in its descent through
the vale of time, and that .wherever the sublime communica-
tions of science have been disregarded, there the politer muse
has not deigned to raise her fascinating voice,
i. The mathematical sciences, like the objects of which
they treat, maybe considered as quantities capable of en-

• TuUy Thsc. Quaest.

J " I have rocked tlie criidle of Irisli Independence, and 1 have followed its hearse."
VOL. XIL. C

Grease by the addition of the least part, it is in their nature»
therefore to be progressive, and since the grounds of com-
parison are innumerable, and the circumstances of relation
infinitely diversified, their progress knows np assignable li-
mit. If the extent of number considered in one direct line
transcend the utmost efi'orts of thought, and outstrip the-
Kiost rapid methods of calculation, what are we to think if
this infinity be propagated on every side by the inexhaustible
power of combination, each successive change presenting a
new order of the whole system, resolvable into an indetermit-
nate number of new dispositions among its elementary parts,
and every different mode of juxtaposition susceptible of an
endless variety of relations undiscovered during the contencb.
plation of former arrangements ? Again, if on account of
the innumerable variations in the length, the number,^ and
mutual inclination of lines and surfaces, pure geometEy ^one
afford such a vast field for speculation, that the human intel>-
lect, after having exspatiated there for near three thousand
years, finds still new tracts aboundiog in objects! unnoticed
by former inquiries, what bounds can now be prescribed to
diseo^very, when new and extensive principles have been
adopted, new modes of investigation applied, when regions,
hitherto unknown, even in name, or considered incapable of
being rendered subject to mathematical research, have been
added to the dominions of science ? In scientific subjects
every new discovery, however noble in itself, however admir-
able for the skill and ingenuity displayed in the research.

-11

tind the simplicity and universality of the conclusion, de-
rives its principal claim on our consideration from the ferti-
lity with which it supplies new deductions, each successively
•unfolding new properties, and pointing out relations hitherto
-unobserved. Thus every step that we ascend in the progress
i^F discovery, at the same time that it gives us a more com-
manding view of the ground that we have passed, enables
us to catchaglimpee of some more elevated pinnacle, which
the interposing objects had hitherto prevented us from ob-
serving, and when at length we have obtained the possession
-erf" ithis 'eminence, we value it chiefly as it facilitates our ap-
proach to a summit Still more elevated and remote. The
•discovery, for which fPythagoras thanked the gods by the
-sacrifice of a whole hecatomb, was entitled to the gratitude
of future mathematicians -for consequences of which the phi-
losopher himself could 'have had no conception, for establish-
ing the connection between arithmetic and geometry, and
Opening the passage to trigonometrical computation. The
-exultation, which drew from Archimede the proud exclama-
'tion '* EvpfiKct," has long been lost in the ardor of ulterior
^discovery ; and his method of eKhaustions, beautiful and ac-
curate, and scientific as it is, retains it's place in the list of
great discoveries principally from it's having given birth to
the method of indivisibles, and prepared the way for the
more extensive and philosophical reasonings of the immortal
Newton. The observations and researches of every one
whose name is mentioned in the history of Science, from the

1^ .

first rude gaze of the Babylonian shepherd to the accurate
examinations of a modern astronomer, assisted by the elabo-
rate apparatus of a royal observatory, all were indispensably
necessary for the perfection of astronomical knowledge, and
the consummation of that great monument of human indus-
try and human understanding. Before a Newton or a La
Place could have shone forth upon the world, it was likewise
necessary that the Egyptian husbandman should have made
the first feeble efforts at geometrical measurement, that suc-
ceeding and more enlightened minds should have contributed
their assistance in extending and improving the confined
views of the former, that Euclid, and Apollonius, and Ar-
chimede should have added their labours, and that after-
ward, in a more advanced age, Cavallerius, Vieta and Wal-
lis, should have enriched with unexpected treasures, and
enlarged with new possessions, the orbis habitabilis of the
scientific world. Thus, even though no very distinguished
man should arise for ages, the great work of science conti-
nues advancing, fresh materials are every day added to the
mass of acquirements ; every year, as it passes, brings some
new offering of light and truth, until at length, when the
fulness of time is arrived, and a sufficient quantity of splen-
dor has been collected in this chaos of accumulated infor-
mation, the whole collected body undergoes one general
purification, one effulgent soul is made the receptacle of all
the light thus separated and refined, fresh rays of origina

brightness are annexed to it, and it becomes a sun to illumi-
nate a long succession of future ages.

But with respect to those more refined and elegant pur-
suits that are usually comprehended under the name of
Belles Lettres, it may be easily perceived that the case is
widely different. From the very constitution of his nature,
and from the state in which he finds himself, in the very inr
fency of societ}-^, man is necessarily an orator, and the ob-
jects and business of oratory are nearly the same in all ages.
Among all the melancholy pictures that travellers have given
from time to time of human degradation, hardly any one
has ever yet been exhibited of a race of men denying the
existence of a Supreme Being. However defiled and disfi-
gured the character of the Creator might have been by at-
tributing to it their own depraved propensities, they still con-
sidered Him with awe and reverence, and submissively of-
fered the homage of their adoration. Hence we always find,
in every age and nation, some whose peculiar office it was
to appease the Deity by prayer, and to unfold the secrets of
their wild mythology, to set forth to the people the supposed
revelations of their god, and to explain the superstitious rites
observed in their worship, to prescribe rules of conduct for
the living, and to celebrate the praises of such departed he-
roes and sages, who had formerly improved and adorned
their community. Such were the offices of a priest in the
earliest days, and these necessarily introduced the characters
of poet and. of orator, of both conjointly, for at first the di-

vision was xniknowTi^, oratory e^f.ry where lisped in niraibens,
and * " song" was considered, " but as the eloquence of
truth." Again, man has nerer been 'found to exist in that
state of absolute solitude, which some philosophers are so
€ond of imposing on the world as the state of nature ; he is
every where a social animal, and as to the nature of the as-
sociation, 'the connection of an insignificant tribe of savages
differs not so much in kind, ais in degree, from the consti-
tution of the most powerful and civilised nation* In the
councils of the most barbatous horde, leagues offensive and
defensive, truces and alliances, justice and injustice, -life and
death, war, p^ice, and commerce, are the subjects of de-
bsite: and of what other description are the decisions of the
most learned tribunals, or the discussions of the most en-
lightened senates ? If from the consideration of such rude
times and uncivilised people, we pass to those periods of
Greece and Rome when the powers of oratory were most
conspicuous, we will find that all those subjects which are
ever introduced in "the speeches of the most refined and
learned speakers, were then almost as well understood as at
the present day. Whatever related to the administration of
-states, or management of families, to prudence in legislation,
and vigour and dexterity in execution; whatever tends to
produce wisdom in council, address in business, and ele-
gance in conversation, all these were perfectly understood
and successfully practised. Few modern orators could be
instanced who would bear a comparison with Cicero, in their

* Gertrude of Wyoming.

knowledge of the various duties of life, the distinctions of
virtue and vice, and all those delicate questions which are
so ably and elegantlj discussed in his philosophical writ-
ings.

Erom such obvious considerations it appeal's, that the ob-
jects of eloquence admit of but trivial variation, and in like
manner it will appear from a little reflection, that the man-
ner of treating the subjects^ of discussion is no less limited.
** Initium' dicendi (says QuintiUan) dedit natura, initiutn
artis, observatio/' As Nature has bestowed on all men the
first rudiments and principles of oratory, so has observation
and exp erience gradually suggested tJiose rules which have
established it as an art^ and received the sanetion of all civi-
lised and enlightened nations. If w& nosv, consider what
that is, from' the observation and experience of which men
have been enabled to draw these precepts, it is immediately
evident that this source is human nature ; by a conformity
with this is the whole art to be judged, and the value of eacbi
particular precept to be estimated; and all the atchievemenfe
that have ever been performed in oratory, resulted from a
judicious management of the passions, intermixed with well-
timed appeals to the common sense of the audieace. But as
amidst all the fluctuations of manners and customs, the
diffusion of knowledge, and the progress of refinementi,
maukind, from the barbarian to the philosopher, partake of
©ne common nature, this identity imposes on Uie orator an.

Jl6

linalterable necessity of exerting his persuasive powers nearly
in the same manner.

Poetry is an imitative, or rather a descriptive art, and the
objects with which it is principally conversant, are the actions
and characters of man, and the external appearance of nature.
Now that the actions and characters of mankind are nearly
the same in all ages, we need not here repeat; and as to
the manners, it is an observation equally old and just, that
the most favourable , asra for the higher orders of poetry is a
period of imperfect civilisation. In this state, man being more
dependant on his own individual exertions, than in a more
perfect form of society, is less under the necessity of regulat-
ing his behaviour according to the pleasure of those around
him, his actions are restrained by no artificial deUcacy, his
manners mellowed indeed from the harsh asperity of the sa-
vage, but far from that insipid sweetness too generally found
in the modern fine gentleman. The bold swellings of his
soul are not taught to subside to the level of good breeding,
nor is the strong and varied expression of his feeling lost in
(what is too often) the monotony of decorum. Here there-
fore, before man has assumed that veil of politeness, which,
except to a very minute inspector, gives such an uniform
appearance to society, the poet has an opportunity of ob-
serving the natural movements of the mind, the original and
unconstrained features of the human character. Accord-
ingly we find in Homer the most natural characters, which
jvill always retain their power over the mind, because being

founded in our nature, similar ones will daily fall under the
observation of all in every age and country. As man ad-
vanced in civilisation, the poet was obliged gradually to
have recourse more to his invention than observation, and
hence poetical characters began to assume less of the species,
and more of the individual, less of those grand and striking
features, that are common among men in general, and more
of those unimportant and accidental differences, that are
the result rather of private caprice than general nature. Of
this we have a remarkable instance in one of the greatest'
poetical characters that England ever produced. " Spenser
(says * Mr. Hume) contains great beauties, a sweet and har-
monious versification, easy elocution and fine imagination,
yet does the perusal of his work become tedious. This effect
is usually ascribed to the change of manners, but manners
have changed more since Homer's time, and yet that poet
still remains the favourite of every reader of taste. Homer
copied true natural manners, which, however uncultivated,
will always form an agreeable picture ; but the pencil of the
English poet was employed in drawing the affectations and
conceits of chivalry.' — Hence in a great measure it arises,
that in a highly civilised country, the lighter departments of
poetry are always more successfully cultivated than the
higher. Even in such compositions, however, we should not
be surprised, if absurd, and perhaps sometimes unnatural

• History of England, App. 3. '
VOL. XII. D

representations of manners be introduced ; or if at best the
characters, however true, should be superficially traced in
the ever-varying tints of custom and fashion, rather than
deeply and distinctly marked by the impressive stamp of pas-
sion and of nature. We should ever remember that all can-
not be equally novel and natural, and that a poet, if he be
strictly confined to the latter class, must make the same con-
fession and defence to which Terence had resorted so many
ages before him.

Eas se non negat

Personas transtulissc ex Graeca

Quod si personis iisdem uti aliis non licet.
Qui magis licet currentes servos scribere,
Bonas matronas facere, meretrices tnalas,
Parasitum edacem, gloriosum militem,
Puerum siipponi, falli per servoni senem,
Amare, odisse, suspicari? denique
Ii)ulhiin est jam dictum, quod non dictum sit prius,
Quare aequom est, vos cognoscere et ignoscere.
Quae veteres factitarunt, si faciunt novi.

Prol. ad Eunuch.

If we now turn our attention to the grand source, from which
poetry derives all its similes, allusions and illustration*, it is
immediately apparent that the progress of time has not
added to natural objects any qualities with which they were
not originally endowed, and therefore no such object is bet-
ter adapted now to excite in the mind a train of poetical
images, than it had been in the primaeval days of poetry.

Whatever exalts the imagination by its sublimity, raises our
admiration at it's magnificence, or awes us into a still more
violent emotion by its terrific grandeur; whatever on the
other hand fascinates us by its beauty, charms us by the
harmonious variety of it's colours, or delights by the exqui-
site delicacy of it's proportions, every such object was equal-
ly, and, in some cases, better qualified to make the same
impression on the poetic mind three thousand years from
the present period. The din of battle, and the roaring of the
winds and waters, must have possessed the same solemn and
fearful qualities ; the melody of the lyre, the gaiety of a
vintage feast, and the serene tranquillity of a summer's eve,
must have had the same chearful and enlivening effect in
the days of Homer, as at present. When Virgil breaks forth
into that exclamation

" Oh quis me gelidis in vallibus Haemi
Sistat, et ingenti ratnorum protegat umbra !

or cries out,

" Oh fortunati nimium, sua si boua norint,
Agricolae !"

the charms of a country life must have appeared as attrac-
tive to him, as to Thomson or any other modern. And
Horace, when , he sang the following verses, must have felt
the pleasing pain of love with a sensibility as exquisite as
Moore himself can pretend to —

♦

Urit me Glycerse nitor,

Spleiideiitis Pario marinore purius,

Urit grata protervitas,

Et vultus piiniuin lubricus aspici." —

The fields of UUin were as green, and the health of Morven as
gloomj, in the days of the real Ossian as of his pretended trans-
lator, " the blue waves of Erin" presented then as brilHant
a prospect, " when they rolled in the hght of the morning,"
and the interval of ages has certainly not rendered " the grey
mountains" more capable of producing a train of melan-
choly ideas. It may be said that the store of nature is in-
exhaustible, and that a true poet will always find something
there, which though it had escaped the notice of his prede-
cessors, is capable of being used to advantage, as an apt
illustration of his sentiments, and a valuable ornament of his
composition. That this is true in a philosophical sense, there
can be little room for doubting, it is certain that we may be
for ever approaching to a more intimate ac(iuaintance with
the works of the Creator, without ever arriving at complete
knowledge ; He alone, who made them, can perfectly compre-
hend the design, utility, and extent of His own stupendous
performance; but its truth in that sense in which only it is
considered advantageous to the poet, will appear, on a little
consideration, to be extremely questionable It must be
granted, that bj' a close and minute examination of sur-
rounding objects, several ideas will suggest themselves, which
would escape the transient glances of a more careless ob-

server: but in order that your comparison should make the
desired impression on the hearer, he must be previously ac-
quainted with that fact or natural appearance to which your
simile alludes. The end of poetry is not so much to instruct
as to please, and the business of the poet is not to inform his
reader of the existence of that phenomenon itself, but to dis- >.

cover to him some connection between it and the subject which
it was intended to illustrate. It is in this respect nearly the
same with poetical description as with logical definition, and
in order that a definition be intelligible, it is necessary that
your reader should be previously acquainted with the signi-
fication of all the terms used in the explanation. I have not
thought to make any mention of history in this slight survey
of the Belles Lettres, for as it is evidently much more limited
in its objects, and circumscribed as to the use of ornament
and illustration, than poetry or oratory, it must admit of still
less variation ; different successive histories may be composed,
but they are all models of the same grand fabric, the colour-
ing, the arnaments, and the style of architecture varying per-
haps in the minuter parts, but the general outline, the pro-
portion of the principal members, and the most striking
features unaltered. <

It has been now shewn that the sciences are in themselves
progressive, both from the nature of their objects considered
in the abstract, and the inexhaustible variety of the creation^
contemplated in a philosophical manner. The objects of the ,||^

poUter arts, on the contrary, admit of but trivial alteration^

at -

and that is of such a nature as to produce rather delicacy
than strength, a chaste and frugal accuracy, rather than an
irregukir and exuberant boldness. The sciences address
themselves to the reason, a faculty which grows with their
growth and strengthens with their strength, the extent of
whose improvement is illimitable, and which we are led to
expect may continue its progress through an endless series of
ages. The Belles Lettres on the contrary appeal to the com-
mon sense, the passions, and that branch of the imagination,
where the train of thought is suggested rather by sensation
than reflection ; the first of which three is nearly the same
in the savage and philosopher, but in the other two, the
Celtic or Scandinavian bard has a great and evident advantage
over the refined versifyer of modern times. From these consi-
^ derations it is abundantly evident that there is no occasion to

have recourse to the hypothesis mentioned in the beginning of
this essay, but there are other circumstances, which, though
they are well known as the principal causes of the retarda-
tion of the ancients, it may not be proper entirely to omit.*
1st. In philosophical investigations they made no use of ma-
thematical reasoning, or of that species of induction, which
> since Lord Bacon's time has been justly called philosophical.

' 2d. In pure mathematics they were too cautious in their me-
thods of demonstration, the foundations of mathematical

* I have avoided mentioning any of the other causes enumerated by Bacon, because
ip5 they have been equally prejudicial to modern, as to ancient, writers; it would be easy to

give instances, were it to the present purpose.

learning indeed were laid with due attention to strength and
security, and its base was constructed with solidity and ele-
gance, but still the plan was confined, and the dimensions of
the intended fabric contracted ; that microscopic nicety, with
which they examined every minute particle of the mass, pre-
vented them from taking a general survey of the rich mate-
rials that lay before them ; and thus when they came to the
construction of the pillar itself, they were unable to pro-
duce any thing worthy of the exertions or talents employed
on it, or of the pedestal prepared for its support.

Having thus treated at large of this objection, it is proper
that we come to the more immediate consideration of the
question itself. Without entering therefore into a panegyric
on the reasoning faculty, it is fit that we state briefly, that as
it is the distinguishing and noblest faculty of men, so like-
wise it is that which demands the most diligent cultivation ;
its fruits, though the richest and most abundant, are scarcely
ever spontaneous, and no high degree of literary excellence,
vyhether in polite or scientific learning, has ever been attained
without a due discipline and improvement of it. The savage of
Otaheite may have been gifted with as much natural talent as
Milton or Newton, and yet when we reflect on the transcen-
dent sublimity of mind, which characterised these great men,
and the groveling spirit of the other, we ace almost tempted to
pronounce them not of the same species. There is no one,
who will deny the advantage and necessity of this cultivation
of the reasoning faculty for the production of the orator, the

critic, or the historian, but it may be said, perhaps, " that as
reason and imagination are independent faculties, this neces-
sity of tlie improvement of the former cannot be alleged in the
case of poetry, which may be called the exclusive province
of the imagination — that in times, when reason had been
but little cultivated, brilliant instances of poetic genius have
appeared, and that Homer himself, the great father of poetry,
flourished in the very infancy of reason." But it is to be re-
membered, that Homer, and the others, who shone forth amidst
the obscurity of rudeness, were indebted to their strength of
reason and accuracy of judgment, no less than the vigour of
their imagination. The works of Homer in particular abound
with sentiments and reflections replete with understanding
and wisdom ; the numerous speeches with which his poems are
interspersed, display' the reasoning faculty, in a degree of excel-
lence not unworthy the most experienced philosopher ; and if
we consider the times in which he lived, the knowledge and
learning which appears throughout his writings, has highly
deserved that admiration with which it has been received by
posterity. Horace says, " that wisdom is the origin and
source of all good writing," and wisdom is not the endow-
ment of nature, but the effect of long and patient study, of
continued exercise and unremitting perseverance. If the
nccessit}' of improving and consolidating the understanding
was so great in the times of Horace, as this and several pas-
sages of his works declare, it must be allowed, that among
all the disadvantages under which tragic and epic poetry

labours at the present day, it would be a most presumptuous
attempt, even in a mind of the greatest natural abilities, to
undertake such a pursuit as will almost necessarily bring him
into competition with the ancients, were not these circum-
stances, in which he is unavoidably inferior, counterbalanced
by the opportunities of a more comprehensive education.
-And if in the review of modern literature, we should find any,
who, though uneducated and uninstructed, with their reason
undirected and their knowledge not much extended beyond
the informations of sense, have by the sole force of native talent
raised themselves to an eminence inaccessible to others though
possessed of all the artificial aids that the most elaborate
cultivation can bestow, we are hence not to conclude that
learning is of no utility, and improvement of the reason super-
fluous, but rather to reflect, how much more decisive would
be the victory of the one, how much more complete the de-
feat of the other, if these extraneous advantages had been
equally withheld or equally communicated. But it has been
the universal opinion of mankind in every age, that educa-
tion is necessary for the perfection of the faculties, and reason
seems to be the only one (if perhaps we except memory,)
that disciphne can improve or. exercise strengthen. In our
infancy the reasoning power makes no appearance, the mind
has then no opportunity of comparison, being distracted by
the multitude and variety of objects ; even those which his
more experienced eye afterward contemplates with indiffer-
ence, being adorned with the fresh and glossy complexion of

VOL. XII. E

novelty. His mind is as yet occupied only by individual and
unconnected ideas, and the world presents to him an uneven
appearance, composed of innumerable detached and irregu-
lar surfaces, which perplex him by the confused and scattered
manner, in which they reflect their light to his intellectual
eye. Even for a considerable time after the reasoning power
has begun to unfold itself, his apprehension continues waver-
ing and his judgment feeble, he examines with the uneasiness
natural to incapacity, and pronounces with hesitation and
reluctance. Nor is it to be imagined that time alone would
be a sufficient remedy for this imperfection, in an undirected
mind this distraction of thought usually subsides into listless-
ness and indifference ; the wonder caused by the novelty is
gone, but it is not succeeded by cool deliberation, they are
satisfied with the confused notions casually caught up while
the objects attracted their attention, and at the same time
derive no profit from their experience, for along with this
cold disregard for every thing that is familiar, they still re
tain a restless and insatiate curiosity. Of the truth of this
we may have abundant proof in the illiterate of every coun-
try, who evince complete insensibility and disregard to fami-
liar objects, even though they have the strongest claims to
their attention, and at the same time are anxiously inquisitive
with regard to every thing that has the recommendation of
novelty. And * there are iDAny even among those, who may

* Reid App. to Home's Sketcbes, Vol. III.

be called learned, that from the habit they have acquired of
submitting their opinions to the authority of others, or from
some otlier principle, that operates more powerfully than the
love of truth, suffer their judgment to be carried along to the
end of their days, either by the authority of a leader, or of
a part}', or of a multitude, or" by their own passions. Such
persons, however learned, however acute, may be said to be
children all their lives. :

Having thus seen that the improvement of the reasoning
faculty is indispensably necessary to all those who would aim
»t excellence in any department of polite literature, even in
poetry with which it is apparently' least connected, we ai'e
now to examine what description of study is best adapted for
this purpose, what mode of instruction might correct the
judgment without encumbering or retarding the fancy, might
confirm the strength and sagacity of the reason in its pursuit,
and enlarge the field of the imagination by its possession.
And first, for the discipline of the understanding no study has
ever been thought so proper as tliat of mathematics, almost
all the ablest writers on the subjects of education and human^
faculties have recommended it, and their opinion has been
sanctioned by the approbation of those learned and enlight-
ened men of every country, to whom has been committed
the superintendance of academic instruction. Quinctilian
expressly inculcates the advantage of mathematical learning
to an orator ; and Locke says that he would have all children
leiirn mathematics, "not, says he, to make them mathema-

licians, but to make them reasonable creatures ;" to which
opinion Dr. Reid agrees, for two reasons. First, "because
there is no other branch of science, which gives such scope to
long and accurate trains of reasoning," by which the mind
Avill be gradually restrained from its natural tendency to run
into extraneous matter, and insensibly acquire the habit of
persevering pursuit and steady application. Secondly, Be-
cause in mathematics there is no room for authoiit/^ or pre-
judice of any kind whicli may give a false bias to the under-
standing." It may indeed be urged with some appearance
of plausibility, that as one of the chief requisites for a
poetical character is a susceptibility of the attractions of no-
velty, any mode of discipline which tends to remove that,
must be vitally injurious to the cause of poetry. But we are
to remark, that novelty in itself does not constitute an ob-
ject fit for the taste or imagination to dwell on ; it is not a
quality of the thing itself, properly speaking, but merely re-
lative to the observer, and therefore, unless it be united to the
inherent and permanent qualities of beauty or sublimit}^, it
can have but little claim on the poet's attention. No one
ever asserted that novelty alone was sufficient to render
poems, pictures or other representations agreeable, and it
would be difficult, if not impossible, to assign a reason, why
that which is thus universally rejected as a foundation for the
secondary, should be admitted as a constituent and original
cause of the primary pleasures of the imagination. ' Addison,
indeed, and Akenside after him, have enumerated novelty

among the sources of the primary pleasures of the imagina-
tion, but Addison lived in the infancy of criticism when the
philosophy of ta»te was as yet unknown, and Akenside, in
the revival of his celebrated poem, has omitted it altogether,
comprehending all in that twofold division sanctioned by the
authorities of Burke and Alison. The real value of novelty
Dr. Reid has thus happily expressed. " When novelty is
altogether separated- from the consideration of worth and
utility,, it. makes but a slight impression upon a truly correct
taste. Every discovery in nature, in the arts and sciences
has a real value, and gives a rational pleasure to a good taste.
But things that have no other recommendation but novelty,
are fit only to entertain children,, or those who are distressed
from a vacuity of thought. This quality of objects may
therefore be compared to a cypher in arithmetic, which adds
greatly to the value of significant figures,, but when put by
itself, signifies nothing at all."

Mathematical studies, therefore, though they in a great
measure remove that sensibility to novelty which is generally
supposed essential to a poetical character, are not on that ac-
count alone to be considered inimical to the imagination.
The exercise and improvement of reason, whatever effect it
may have in regulating and directing the passions, neither
seeks nor tends entirely to suppress them. In the present
state of criticism, we should be much more inclined to doubt
the soundness of a man's taste, than admire the delicacy of
his feeling, Avho could exspatiate with rapture on the charms-

^m .

of a prospect in general, without being able to point out
those particular objects which had principally contributed
to call forth his admiration. No one will say, that the study
of philosophical criticism is a pursuit calculated to injure the
imagination ; to say that a man can attain to a high rank in
poetical reputation, without learning what to avoid or what
to imitate, or why the former should be rejected, and tlie
latter adopted, would be absurdity too gross for '.refutation.
In order to succeed in a composition of your own, you must
have investigated the principles, and searched into human
nature for the causes of that success in others ; you should
not be content with a few fruits, that chance might present
or desultory observation procure, you should endeavour to
get possession of the parent stock, from which all the scions
shoot forth, and from which issues the vital principle that is
necessary for the preservation, the beauty and the strength
of the whole body. This taste which is thus necessary for a
poet is nothing else but a refined judgment ; they are not two
distinct powers of the mind, but different species of the same
faculty ; that, which when employed on scientific subjects is
called reason, in matters of critical enquiry, will receive the^
appellation of taste; the objects with which the mind is en-
gaged vary, but it is the same understanding that is exercised
in both cases. " If then," it may be urged, " these two are
really not essentially different from each other; if it be the
same judgment that is exercised in both enquiries, where is
the occasion for mathematical study of which a poet or ora-

tor can never make any direct use in his works ; will not the
perusal of works on taste and criticism be sufficient to give
him that strength of conception and justness of thought,
which is so much insisted on, as being requisite for all men ?"
To this it may be answered, that at the period best adapted
for the strengthening of the faculties, the mind scarcely knows
any other evidence but that of sense, and is perplexed and
confused at the simplest abstract question ; any attempt
therefore to turn the mind immediately, and without prepa-
ration, to a study abounding in minute and subtle distinctions,
where the medii termini are perhaps never intuitively con-
nected with the extremes, or with each other, must be at-
tended with extreme labour and difficulty. The conclusions,
never drawn with demonstrative force, would to such a mind^
appear entirely unsatisfactory, nay, without a previous ac-
quaintance Avith logic, he would be unable, from the diffuse
style in which such compositions are generally^ written, tO'
comprehend the tendency of the argument, or perceive whe-
ther the induction be fairly made from the particular in-
stances previously laid down as the foundations of a theory..
li: has been remarked, as a signal instance of the wisdom and-
benevolence of the Deitv, t^hat darkness conves not on us-
suddenly ; we ^are prepared for the cliange by the gradual de--
crease of light, until at length the moon almost impercepti-'
bly resumes her station in the heavens. In such gradation-
should we arrange the succession of studies for the enlisjhten-
ing of the mental eye, we should not plunge it at once from

the lustre of sensitive knowledge into the obscure mazes of
metaphysical criticism, we should first indulge it in the con-
templation of the splendor of mathematical demonstration,
then let it enjoy the milder and less irresistible light of phi-
losophical reasoning, and last of all commit it to those more
attenuated beams, that enliven the regions of taste and cri-
ticism. " The truth is," says Addison, " there is nothing
more absurd, than for a man to set up for a critic, without a
good insight into all the parts of learning, whereas many of
those, who have endeavoured to signalise themselves by works
of this nature among our English writers, are not only defi-
cient in the:abovementioned particulars, but plainly discover
by the phrases they make use of, and by their confused way
of thinking, that they are not acquainted with the most ob-
vious and ordinary systems of arts and sciences." Here we
have pointed out to us by the first great critic of our nation,
the fundamental cause of the errors of his predecessors ; he
refers it entirely to their " want of a good insight into all the
parts of learning." And if the opinion of such a man as
Addison wanted any support on such a subject as criticism,
the distinguished success with which it has been prosecuted
of late by men conspicuous for their scientific acquirements,
.is the strongest and most satisfactory corroboration of his
judgment. And the same elegant and ingenious author ob-
serves, that " it is not sufficient for a man who sets up for a
taste in criticism, to have perused the Ancient and Modern
Classics with attention, unless he has also a clear and logical

head." Aristotle, who was the best critic, was also one of the
best logicians that ever appeared in the world." Though fully
conscious of the advantages resulting from the study of logic,-
I should have hesitated to mention it as useful for the acqui-
sition of a just and delicate taste, were I not thus sheltered
by the authority of the most elegant of critics. At the pre-
sent day, the prejudice against that art runs so high that the
very mention of it, when treating of polite literature, is in
danger of being accounted. absurd and pedantic ;.and to enter
into a formal vindication of it, and a detailed exposition of
the benefits accruing from its cultivation, would (beside that
it would extend this little essay much beyond the intended
limits) be only transcribing the eulogiums of several, distin*
guished not only for their scientific knowledge, but more
elegant and refined literature. It will, however, perhaps not
be superfluous to mention one instance, where logic seems of
the utmost importance to the poet and the critic. The chief
requisites for a truly noble and sublime style, are energy of
thought and justness of sentiment, such as when clad in the
plainest garb, will display sufficient internal marks of an in*
hercnt and unalienable dignity. For this purpose Longinus
advises us to examine splendid passages of the poets and
orators, " lest they should possess only that semblance of
majesty, which is often produced by a profusion of figurative
expression and rhetorical ornament, when on the contrary,,
if more accurately inspected, they Avould be found empty
and superficial, and meriting the contempt rather than the
VOL. xn. p

approbation of every sound and genuine critic." * Quinc-
tilian also tells that there are some who pay more attention
to elegance of expression, and brilliancy of metaphor, than
to real strength of conception, correctness of opinion, and
weight of argument. -j' Pope has said, that a little learning
is a dangerous thing, and his own Essay on Man is a memo-
rable and lasting instance of the truth of his observation.
Had he possessed that logical acumen which seems to be so
much despised, he would not have been seduced by the art-
ful sophistry of Bolingbroke into a defence and illustration of
the doctrine of fatalism. That he was seduced, is evident,
both from the conduct of Bolingbroke, who is said to have ri-
diculed him, among his confidential friends, for having adopt-
ed principles, of which he did not .perceive the tendenc}'-,
and also from that ardor of delight and profusion of grati-
tude, with which Pope accepted and acknowledged the gra-
tuitous defence set up by Warburton.

That Pope was thus deceived by the specious arguments
of his insidious preceptor, cannot be attributed to a natural
defect in the discursive faculty, on the contrary the manner
in which he treats this very subject is a sufficient proof that
he possessed it in a very high degree: nor can we imagine
that he adopted these dogmas immediately and without ex-

* Ml) Tiva jnEys^a; ej^o* ^a»Taj-*a» lavrnv 'r woXu -a^oc-KUza-i to eix« •m^oo'a.yx'sjXaTTCj/.mv, avasr-

f Sunt qui ueglecto rcrum pondere et viribus stnteiiliarum, si vel inania verba in Iios
niodos depravaverint, suuiinos se judicent artifices, ideoque noii desiuuut eos nectere.

amination, that trembling sensibility which he always mani-
fested with regard to his literary reputation, will not al-
low us to suppose it; it remains then that we account for
it by his ignorance of that art, which professes to unfold the
most complicated chain of fallacy, and guide the mind in
safety through the labyrinth of ingenious sophistry. Here
then we see an important advantage to be derived to the
poet from the study of the art of reasoning ; and the same
instance is sufficient to prove its still more indispensable ne-
cessity to the critic. " The Essay on Man" says Johnson *,
" abounded in splendid amplifications and sparkling senten-
ces, which were read and admired, with no great attention
to their ultimate purpose; it's flowers caught the eye, which
did not see what the gay foliage concealed, and for a time
flourished in the sunshine of universal approbation.. So little
was any evil tendency discovered, that, as innocence is un-
suspicious, many read it for a manual of piety." Here was
that semblance of majesty, against which Longinus advises
the Clitic to be so cautious, and with such dexterity and ele-
gance was the counterfeit wrought, that it was received as
genuine by the universal English nation; and for the disco-
very of the imposture, the world was indebted, not to any
of the wits and more refined critics of the da}', but to a pro-
fessed writer on the subject of logic.

Thus have we seen that subjects of a lighter and more ele-
gant turn arc capable of being treated with encreased. per-

* Life of Pope.

spicacity in consequence of tlie rectification of the taiste aa<l
correction of the judgment by the partial pursuit of abstruse
enquiry. And in like manner by a still more minute and phi-
losophical research into these matters, will the mind be dis-
ciplined for the discussion of those graver and more serious
j<.ubjects, suited to the occupation of contemplative sagacit}';
subjects which necessarily diverge from the line of classical
elegance and simpJicity, less engaging, more important, less
capricious, and more profound. The quantity of scien-
tific knoAvledge likely to be advantageously instrumental
in the prosecution of less rigorous studies, should be in
some measure proportionate to the weight of those studies
themselves; and it should be regulated by ascertaining, whe-
ther the reason, or the imagination, be likely to gain the ascen-
dancy, and determined by the degree of the ascendancy
which either may be presumed to obtain. The wild and
irregular charms of the JSlinstrers lay, the melting pathos of
the bard of Wyoming, the plaintive simplicity of the " De-
serted village," and the elegant voluptuousness of Moore,
could receive but little benefit from mathematical enquiry,
or logical discipline. In such compositions, habits of close
and accurate reasoning may save the writer from impropriety
of thought or pruriency of expression, and may enable him to
determine justly what sort of dress and ornament would best
become the features and complexion of his characters; but
that characteristic beauty which runs through the minutest
'.parts of the Avriters above-mentioned, and constitutes their

specific difference, can neither be acquired orcommunicated.
Nearly the same may be said of the writers of comedy,
and what is called by * Dr. Beattie the comic Epopee ; in
these cases the characters, manners, and even in some de-
gree the language, are more immediately derived from ob-
servation and acquaintance with the world, and -f- the con-
stitution of society at present is particularly favourable for
these kinds of writing. For the archetypes of Squire Wes-
tern or Sir Anthony Absolute, of Tom Jones and Charles
Surface, of Blifil and Joseph Surface, of Dr. Primrose and
Parson Adams, of Partridge and Hugh Strap, we have
only to look among our acquaintances; and he must be very
secluded from the world, who could not point out real cha-
racters, such as might be fairly supposed to have sat for the
pictures. The chief uijc therefore that seems to be in the
preparatory exercise of the reason for such writing, is in ac-
customing the mind to determina the degree of abstraction
necessary for the formation of a genus, and also in enabling
it to make a judicious selection of such circumstances as
may be found in different individuals of the same character.
The character of Tom Pipes may be considered as a fair ge-
neral representative of British seamen, and yet there cer-
tainly was no one seaman that ever corresponded perfectly
to the archetype; it is a combination of all those peculiari-
ties incident to that mode of life, eacli of which may be

• Essay on Poetry, and Music.

t Beattie's Essay on Laughter and Ludicrous Composition,

supposed to be found individually in diflerent persons. If
therefore for the classification of natural objects by philoso-
phical abstraction, there, be an indispensable necessity for
sound judgment and accurate discrimination, the occasion
for it in this poetical abstraction must, from the superior dif-
ficulty of the operation, be immediately acknowledged. In
philosophical abstraction you are required only to omit pecu-
liarities, here it would be a vice not only to add an idea that
was not to be found in any, but to retain what was not to be
found in all ; whereas, in the other case, you are expected
not only to omit, but to retain some singularities, and even
to add, as far as possibiHty will allow, whatever seems ne-
cessary for the perfection of the generic character. In the
one mode you diminish from real existence, in the other you
])oth diminish in one respect, and encrease in another; in
the former the genus is partial and incom])lcte, in the latter
it is exaggerated and redundant. In philosophical ab-
straction you have but one, and that apparently a simple
rule to follow, that is, to leave out all differences whatsoever :
in the other you leave out differences not merely as sucii,
but because they are accidental to that particular character
you intend to delineate; it is requisite not only that the in-
dividuals of the species described should differ from each
other in these qualities, but agree with individuals of other
classes in the same points. 'J'hus in drawing the character
of Pipes, a trait was not to be omitted, merely because it
was not universally found in all seamen, but because it

iiiitTht be found in other persons of any other assignable pro-
fession, and conscquentl}' could not be retained in a repre-
sentation which was intended to be characteristic. But this,
which in itself appears to be a more delicate operation than
that required in the former case, is only the beginning; then
follow the collection of all the characteristic features re-
ally existing among the diflerent individuals of the class,
and the addition of such farther decorations as seem consist-
ent with verisimilitude. When Augustus Caesar committed
the imperfect xEneid to the hands of some of the greatest
geniuses of his day, he allowed them only to correct by re-
trenching what was redundant, he did'not suffer them to add
a single line, or even to complete a broken one; how much
would the difficulty have been augmented, had he qom-
manded them to give distinct characters to the " fortis Gyas
fortisque Cleanthus," and raise each of them to the elevated
rank of poetical genera ? If from the consideration of these
lighter species of composition, we now turn to others of a
more sublime and dignified nature, it will appear evident at
first sight, that for such productions as Paradise Lost, the
Essay on Man, the Pleasures of Imagination, or the Anti
Lucretius, the judgment cannot be too correct, the under-
standing too assiduously cultivated. Here it is necessary for
the soul to put forth all its energies, and nothing that ap-
pears, even in the slightest degree, likely to contribute
to its strength or support, should be neglected. The old
alchy mists pretended tq extract gold from every sort of me-

tallic substance ; it should be the endeavour of the poet who
undertakes such exalted subjects as we are considering, to
effect that which they professed to perform. In such an ar-
duous contest, it is not enough to have tlie natural strength
and vigour of an Achilles, one should like him be arrayed in
impenetrable armour, and provided with weapons not liable
to be broken by violence or impaired by time; to persons of
ordinary strength and stature they might be rather an incum-
brance than an assistance, but when possessed by one of su-
perior powers and unusual dimensions, they will be not so
much an addition to his natural frame as a part of it, " they
will be as wings to him," according to the expression of the
Grecian bard.

Few, who consider, with even passing attention, the reli-
gious and political controversies of former times, as well as
of the present day, but will be inclined to acknowledge thq
manifest and extensive advantages resulting from a dexter-
ous and scientific management of subjects unconnected with
scientific investigation. Scientific knowledge, to a very con-
siderable amount, is necessary to predispose the mind to a
systematic and sagacious enquiry into subjects of profound
and tediously protracted controversy. And so great is the
necessity for it in this particular case, that it is universally
admitted, the cause of truth has never suffered more real
detriment than from the hasty and precipitate zeal of super-
ficial theologians. It was a saying of the celebrated Ganga-
uelli, that he could tell, from the perusal of a work on any

argumentative subject, wh&ther tlie author' was a niathema«
tician or not, and without doubt there will be a considerable
fund of internal evidence, whence a decision may in general
be formed as to the author's habits of abstruse speculation*
It is the peculiar glory of the Church of England^ that be-
side giving the most able and irrefragable defence of those
tenets in which she differs from other Christian societies, she
has, in every age since the Reformation, produced hosts of
zealous and enlightened men, who have stood forth the
champions and protectors of Christianity in general, and suc-
cessfully exerted themselves in overturning whatever had even
the slightest or most remote tendency to weaken the stabi-
lity of the true faith : every Hobbea has had his Cumberland^
every Spinoza his Clarke, and every Tyndal his Conybeare;
nor is it only over the malicious cavils and artful sophistry af
professed enemies, that the Protestant Church has to exult,
the more venial errors of sincere but ill-judging Christians
have not been suffered to pass unnoticed or uncorrected.
Now almost all those, by whom such inestimable service has
been performed, were of the great theological school of the
seventeenth century, all of them carefully disciplined in sci-;.
entific reasoning, almost all considerable mathematicians,-
acute metaphysicians, and carrying their estimation of logic
so far, as to use it technically and with the most complete
success, in their arguments and refutations. Cumberland
appears to have been not only one of the clearest and most
forcible, reasoners, but one of the deepest philosophers! of his*

VOL. Xll. G

time ; no sort of learning seems to have escaped him, and it fg
surprising to observe with what dexterity and effect he turns
subjects apparently the most unconnected and remote into
the happiest and most striking illustrations of his arguments.
Had Barrow been known to the world only as the author of
Geometrical and Optical Lectures, and a cultivator of the
method of indivisibles, he would be entitled to a high rank
among the learned men of his country ; but by directing the
resources of his strong and highly improved understanding
to the elucidation of the doctrines of Christianity, he has
established for himself still more extensive claims to the gra-
titude and admiration of England. Clarke would have been
still regarded with veneration as the friend of Newton, the par-
taker in his studies, and explainer of his system, had it not
been considered that the best proof of his mathematical abi-
lities was his demonstration of the Being and attributes of
the DEITY. And the present age has to boast of men of
our own country and university, who have shewn the fruits
of their more abstract speculations in masterly and scientific
works on questions of the highest moment and most entan-
gled complexity, in discourses that display the discursive fa-
culty employed in the most exquisite perfection on the most
difficult and important doctrines of the Christian religion.
HoAv great the utility of close and accurate reasoning is to the
eloquence of the Bar or the Senate, is too obvious to require
a detailed and minute exposition ; it is well known that seve-
ral of those great men, who are now in the highest reputa-

tion for forensic talent, had in the early part of their lives,
and during their course of academic education, been distin-
guished for their abilities in severer studies. The great Athe-
nian orator derives a considerable share of his renown, from a
strict attention to cleanness of arrangement and strength of
reasoning, even in the full career of his rapid and impetuous
eloquence; in the very " whirlwind of his passion" his pre-
sence of mind never forsakes him, he keeps his eye steadily
fixed on the course through which he is to direct his own argu-
ment, and marks attentively the obstacles which his rivals or
enemies may have opposed to his progress. And to account
for this happy union of emotion and calmness, of transport
and deliberation, we are told that he was a pupil of that
school over whose gate it was written, that no one ignorant
of geometry should enter. Servius Sulpicius, according to
Cicero, was the greatest orator among those distinguished
for legal knowledge, and the most distinguished for legal
knowledge among the eminent orators ; though there were
many experienced civilians and acute pleaders at the time,
he was the only one who understood Law as an art, who had
regularly digested and methodised it, who had reduced it to
settled principles, and given it a scientific appearance. —
" This^' says the orator, * " he would never have effected by
the knowledge of law alone, had he not also learned that
Art, which teaches to distribute an entire subject into it's
parts, to explain what was unknown by defi:nitions, and elu-

* Cicero — Brut.

cidatc what was obscure by a full and clear interpretation, to
discern whatever is equivocal or ambiguous, and point out
■tli« inaccuracy to others; and which, finally, supplies you
with a rule to distinguish between truth and falsehood, and
perceive what consequences may, and what may not, be
fairly deduced from certain premises."

Hitherto we have considered the sciences only as they
tend to strengthen the reason and correct the judgment, to
produce a condensation both of thought and of expression,
to give perspicacity in detecting error, clearness in arranging
the confutation of an adversary's opinion, and accuracy in
methodising the statement of one's own. But they are also of
no unimportant serv'ce to the Imagination, and will enable
the possessor of them, to display a vast variety of illustrations
and similitudes, which he cannot be censured for having bor-
rowed from the ancients, because they depend on ideas with
which they were unacquainted. "The imagination," says
Burke,* "is incapable of producing any thing absolutely
new, it can only vary the disposition of those ideas which
it has received from the senses;" That the imagination has
no creative power, properly speaking, is immediately appa-
rent, but that the exercise of it's combining faculty is li-
mited to ideas of sensation, is as erroneous as the former as-
sertion is incontrovertible; the imagination derives a great,
and at the present day, should derive much the greatest
supply, from reflection. We have already seen that nature,

• Introduction to Sublime and Beautiful.

•45

as it presents itself to the senses, preserves a constant uni-
formity; this source of association therefore, great and exten-
sive as it is, must naturally be liable to exhaustion, and it
appears at present to be strained very nearly to its limit.
But in the other case there is no asssignable boundary ; every
encrease of knowledge serves to shew us still more sensibly
than we were before aware of, how much still remains to be
discovered. This difference between the two is beautifully
expressed by Akenside —

" Soon feeble gro\^
Their impulse on the sense, while the pall'd eye
In vain expects it's tribute, asks in vain
Where are the ornaments it once admired.
Not so the Moral species, nor the Powers
Of Passion and of Thought; the ambitious mind.
With objects boundless as it's own desires,
Gan there converse, by those unfading forms
Touched and awakened."

In almost every department of philosophy, natural philo-
sophy in particular, and in every branch of natural history,
the moderns have an evident and great advantage over their
predecessors. Hence are derived an endless multitude of
ideas unknown to antiquity, and various opportunities of
tracing out new and unexpect-ed similitudes; and whoever
'^^'is acquainted with the doctrine of combination* must per-
.'>reive, that the sphere of the imagination is encreased in a
■much greater proportion than the actual number of addi-

, . .46

tional notions acquired by the enlargement of literacy know-
ledge.

It may be said, that the mind may be overpowered with
the weight of knowledge, if encreased beyond a certain li-
mit, and the imagination will be perplexed by the number
of ideas and consequent difficulty of choice; thus their mul-
tiplicity will prevent their use, and the disappointed scholar
will too late find the natural vivacity of his fancy deadened,
his original perspicacity clouded and obscured, and will la-
ment the loss of that time, which might have been more ad-
vantageously employed in the contemplation of the beauty
and sublimity of the sensible creation. It may appear a
confirmation of this, that the thoughts and sentiments of
persons in a state of comparative rudeness, where there is
little information beyond that of sense, are generally consi-
dered bolder and more poetical than those of other persons ;
and that the effusions of youthful poets are supposed to shew
an exuberant redundancy of imagery, that is usually much
diminished in the days of improved reason and accumulated
knowledge. As to the first, however, we should not ascribe
it so much to a more vivid force of imagination, as the po-
verty of language invariably' attending imperfect civilisation.
All languages are in some degree metaphorical, it would be
impossible to have distinct appropriate signs for every object
of thought, therefore we are constrained to borrow the names
properly applied to more familiar ideas, and extend them to
others with which we are not so long or so intimately ac-

quainted. And if in such a copious language as that pf
our's, there be ^&vi words that are not used in a variety of
significations, what a complicated heap of metaphor must
that tongue be, which does not consist of the twentieth part
of our vocabulary ? Besides, though the language abound
thus in metaphor, it by no means follows that it is, therefore,
more poetical or sublime; the style is generally very uneq.ual;
if one passage is somewhat beyond the level of ordinary poe-
try among us, the next is as much below it. We know that in
natural objects, a country abounding in sudden declivities
and steep ascents, strikes the eye as much mOre picturesque;'
and perhaps more elevated, than a tra-ct of as great height in
reality, but less diversified in it's appearance.

If this be so in the primary objects of the imagination,
(and I believe every one accustomed to the observation of
nature will assent to it) it may, by an easy, and apparently
just analogy, be transferred to the secondary. As accuracy
of proportion, therefore, diminishes the visible height of an
object, so a composition, the s^'mmetry of whose parts is re-^'
gulated by an accurate taste, will not impress upon the ima-
gination at first view, those ideas of sublimity and boldness,
that are so powerfully excited by the perusal of the wild pro-
ductions of untutored ftincy. The second opinion above
mentioned, that the early poems of men possessed of real'
poetical talent, abound in a gay luxuriancy of thought, un-
equalled in their n>aturer works^ is 'alsO very questionable.
On the contrary, I believe it will be found, by examining the

juvenile pieces of our own celebrated poets, that a povertjr
of idea prevails uniformly among them. Thej even seem
conscious of their own defect, for whenever they seize upon
a favourable or happy idea,, they seem unwilling ever to let
it escape, and it is compelled to drag it's way through twenty
or perhaps thirty lines, Roscommon says of the French poe-
try, compared with the Knglish,

" The sterling bullion of one Englbh line.

Drawn to French wire, would in whole pages shine."

and some old critic, (Lucian, I believe) speaking of that
passage in the Odyssey, which has been so admirably trans-
lated by Pope, and begins thus ;

" With many a weary step, and many a groan.
Up a high bill he heaves a huge round stone."

Makt.

says, ** if it were Apollonius or Callimachus that attempted
this description, how many verses would they have employed
in tracing the ascent of the stone, and how, many more would
they have found necessary to conduct it down the eminence,
whither it had been moved with such tedious labour, as well of
the poet, as the criminal." Such a difference as is here pointed
out between French and English poetry in general, or be-
tween the sublime conciseness of Homer, and the minute
and feeble refinements of Apollonius, may be observed be-
tween the compositions , of the same poet in youth and in

maturity, between the fall grown majesty of the author of
the ^neid, and the crude imbecility of that Virgil,

*' Qui modo Culicem fleverat ore rudi." Mart.

If then we are to conclude that the productions of a poet
are thus improved by time, not only in correctness but in
imagination, (and such a conclusion may be drawn without
much apprehension of error) and if it cannot be attributed
to an encrease in the warmth of his feelings, or in his sensi-
bility with regard to the beauties of external Nature, the
only remaining method of accounting for it is to ascribe it
altogether to the augmentation of his intellectual wealth by
the rich and varied offerings that philosophy presents.

The sciences assist the imagination not only by encreasing
the opportunities of combination, but also in a manner still
more important for the purposes of poetry, by raising a sus-
ceptible mind to such a fervor of enthusiasm as can scarcely
ever be excited by the impulse of unassisted sense. " Every
* accession of knowledge in itself is pleasant, and affecting.
Even mathematical truths, which have the least intercourse
with human passions, are not received with cold indifference
when considered as purely speculative, without any attention
to their use or application ; we are delighted with them, nay
sometimes even transported by what metaphysical critics call
the beauty of theorem."

• Leland on Eloquence, p, 3.

yoL. XII. u , '

** For man loves knowledge, and the beams of trutli

More welcome touch his understanding's eye.

Than all the blandishments of sound his ear.

Than all of taste his tongue. Nor ever yet

The melting rainbow's vernal tinctured hues

To me have sliewn so pleasing, as when first

The hand of Science pointed out the path.

In which the sun-beams, gleaming from the west,.

Fall on the wat'ry cloud, whose darksome veil

Involves the Orient, and that trickling shower.

Piercing thro' every crystalline convex

Of clustering dew-drops to tlieir flight opposed-.

Recoil at length, where, concave all behind.

The internal surface of each glaiisy orb

Repels their forward passage into air.

That thence direct they seek the radiant goal.

From which their course began; and as they strike-

In different lines the gazer's obvious eye.

Assume a different lustre, through the breed

Of colours changing from the splendid rose

To the pale violet's dejected hue.'.'

Akenside. *

Thus even in questions of a nature completely abstracted
and mathematical, the mind is capable of enjo3nng a pure
and serene satisfaction. It 4s- true that at first the difficulty
attending the investigation will preponderate over any gratifi-
cation that the beauty or utility of the^conclusion is naturally
calculated to produce, but his susceptibility of emotion will;

* I have taken the liberty of inserting this passage at full length, not only ou account
of the force with which the beginning of it bears upou the argument, but also because
the remainder of it may be considered as a fair specimen of the manner in which sub-
jects so decidedly mathematical should be treated by a poet.

increase with his skiil, aud attractions hitherto unobserved
or unheeded will every moment present themselves to his no-
tice. And when his judgment has thus become more exact
and refined, those difficulties, which at first were attended
with trouble and uneasiness, will now constitute no inconsi-
derable portion of his pleasure ; they will be to hirn so many
testimonies of the skill, the sagacity and invention of his au-
tlior, will transport him with admiration of his genius, and
exeite in him a reverence for every I'elic connected with his
memory. Thus will the young philosopher be amply repaid
for the obstacles that impeded his progress, by the enjoy-
ment of a pure delight, more tranquil, indeed, but not less
satisfactory than that rapidity of impulse with which we are
sometimes hurried along by the more commanding features of
the material creation. But when the soul is led along to take
a more distinct survey of the earth, to observe its various
climes, each amply supplied with those productions best
suited to the nature of the country, and the accommodation
of its inhabitants; when it beholds the numberless tribes of
animals that people the distant regions of the earth, the
pathless ocean, and the purer element that surrounds us';*
when it discovers the myriads of inhabitants on every leaf of
every plant, and remarks the perfect constitution and regular
form with which each of them has been gifted ; the young
philosopher seems then to have acquired a new sense, he has
jvery Avhere ap opportunity of tracing out beauties imper*

ceptible to most observers of nature, and in the contempla-
tion even of objects most familiar to him before, he feels —

" that kind access of joy.
Which spring on each fair object, while we trace
Through all its fabric, wisdom's artful aim
Disposing every part, and gaining still.
By means proportioned, her benignant end."

He is now to enjoy a still more sublime delight; the first
wish of Virgil, (whom no one will call cold to tlie sensible
beauties of nature) was —

" Me vero primum dukes ante omnia Musae,
Quarum sacra fero ingenti percussus amore,
Accipianf, caelique vias et sidera monstrent.
Quid tantum properent Oceano se lingere soles
Hyberni, vel quse tardis mora noctibus obsit,
Unde tremor terris, qui vi niaria aha tumescant
Objicibus rupti9> rursusque in seipsa residant.'"

What Virgil wished for in vain, the poet of the present day
has an opportunity of acquiring with ease, and displaying
with effect. Under the guidance of Newton, he may range
through the solar system, and survey the planets, still obe-
dient to the laws of truth, returning to retrace the paths
allotted to them, pursue the devious comet, " that goeth so
far, and no farther," and perceive the majestic sovereign of
the system in conscious dignity still remaining immoveable.
If at length his mind should traverse, with Ilcrschel, the full
orb of being, he will catch a gUmpse of that glory, which no

^ finite intelligence is capable of comprehending, he will see^ ia

prospect, millions of systems, rising before him, but thej
only conceal from him the thousands of millions that lie be-
yond; and when innumerable suns, not one of whose r£i.ys
is permitted ever to enlighten the corporeal e3'e of man,
' blaze out upon him, his keen conception will be dazzled by

an excess of lustre, and he will sink into that delirium of
joy, that, if ever there be a moment of poetical inspiration,
is best calculated to produce it. When he compares this
sublime assemblage, with that scene (however splendid it
may be) that presents itself to the natural eye, he will cry:
out witii Akenside —

" Who, that from Alpine heights, his labouring eye

Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey

The Nile, or Ganges, rolling his bright wave

Through mountains, plains, through empires black with shade.

And continents of sand, will turn his gaze.

And mark the wand'rings of a scanty rill

That murmurs at his feet V

Thus have I feebly endeavoured to point out the advan-
tages that may be derived both to the reason and the imagi-
nation, from scientific pursuits ; it must, however, be re-
marked, that for the former all the branches of science are
not equally useful; and for the latter, no science whatsoever,
except, perhaps, moral philosophy, should be cultivated to
its fullest extent, and pursued through all its varieties of
minuteness. ]n the abstract mathematics, the. mind, for the

purpose of discipline, has not so much occasion for the con- ^

chision as the premises; in this intellectual chace, it is not
the possession of the prey, but the invigoration of our own
powers, that should be the primary object. It is evident to
every one that this end is not so happily attained by the
analytic metliods so much; in use at present, as by the an-
cient geometry. For the youth who is destined to be a mere
mathematician, algebra offers, in general, an eas}' and com-
pendious mode of advancing in knowledge, but his know-
ledge is not philosophy, it is not (to borrow a logical defini-
tion) ** acquired by the sole force of reason." Were it ne-
cessary to insist on this, it would be easy to illustrate it by
a comparison of^ the truths contained in the 2d book of
Euclid, as treated by that geometer, and as they would be
by an analyst, or b}' remarking the dift'erence between a de-
monstration, as it is handled by Hamilton, and by Emerson
or L'Hospital ; and perhaps still more strongly by observing,
that mere characters, of whose meaning no one has or ever
can have any conception, (they being supposed the marks of
inconsistent notions, as the very name, "impossible quan-
tity," denotes,) are as proper objects of analytical compu-
tation, except in the mechanical difficulty of managing them,
as real and adequate ideas.

Again it may be prejudicial to the imagination to enter
with minute accuracy into any scientific enquiry. He Avho
has been too long habituated to the consideration of abstruse
metaphysical enquiries, the patient investigation of mathe-

55^

matical relation, or the examination of the individual and
peculiar qualities of natural objects, rather than those which
admit of comparison with others, can have but faint concep-
tions of that vivid glow of feeling, which animates him who
has beai principally conversant with more elegant and refined
pursuits. That entlmsiastic emotion which the latter de-
lights to indulge in is a stranger to the breast of the mathe-
matician, and if it sliould occasionally intrude, it is treated
with suspicion, and considered, perhaps, dangerous, cer-
tainly unnecessary and extravagant.' In the works of the
more eminent poets and orators, we occasionally find those
noble darings of the soul, which are subject to no critical
control ; they acknowledge no judge but the fervid spirit that
gave them birth, and elude the force of those laws which
compress the more terrestrial particles of composition into
system and subordination, but are insuflScient to restrain the
aerial subtlety of the " divinae particula auras." He who
wishes to scrutinise such passages with metaphysical accu-
racy may pronounce them contrary to the dictates of sove-
reign reason; but though he thinks himself justified in ex-
pressing partial disapprobation at the indiscretion of temerity,
evinced in the attempt, he cannot refuse, like the Lacede-
monians of old, the tribute due to transcendent prowess and
distinguished success. Such efforts no preparatory disci-
pline can enable us to make ; such fruits no cultivation can
bring forth, they must be tlie spontaneous offerings of a lux--
uriant soil, and in a cold climate would decay even in th&

hot-beds of the most elaborate education. When Homer, in

endeavouring to raise to the highest pitch our conception of

the Vionors of a battle, says, Aeion 5 ingde^ otucc^ hs^m 'Aiimtui,

^jtt^ ' &c. he falls into one of those errors, which made Plato say,

that as he raises his men to the dignity of gods, so he de-
grades his deities to the condition of men, of those very crea-
tures» whom he has called the most miserable of animals;
yet none of his poetical readers would wish to have it ex-
punged from tli€ passage, of which il is so grand an orna-
ment. When Demosthenes broke forth into his celebrated
» , oath, 'Ov fji^a. Tus iv MagaOam, &c. or Burke into his eulogium on

the Queen of France, and lamentation for the extinction of
chivalry, it is hardly possible that they could have produced
*uch towering sublimity by study or deliberation, passion and
native genius alone could have effected it.

It will not be improper therefore to mark particularly those
circumstances in which a peculiar opposition seems to sub-
sist between the two pursuits. 'J'he first cannot be expressed
better than in the words of Lord Bacon ; in the preface to
the Novum Organum, he has these words (In Philosophia)
" Mens rebus morigera sit, nee impotenter rebus insultet,"
and the same great man elsewhere * says, " Poesis animum
erigit et in sublime rapit, rerum similia ad animi desideria
acconimociando, non animum rebus (quod ratio facit et his-
toria) submittendo." The second is nearly the same as Locke

• De Augm. Scknt.

'if

draws between wit and judgment, the one ctynsista more irt
forming pleasant pictures to amuse the fancy, by assembling^
those ideas that have the least resemblance, the other on the
contrary is exercised in separating those that have the least!
difference. This distinction, however, i« not to be consi-
dered complete. For although it must be confessed, that as-
imitation is the principal object of poetry, that faculty whose
province is the discovery of similitudes claims the chief at-
tention ; still it is requisite that we should examine, whether
the coincidence be perfect or not, and if not, determine acn
curately the extent of their parallelism, and precisely mark
out the points where they begin to diverge. To have a can-
fused general perception of the resemblance is by no means-
sufficient, if those features of the picture which are evidently
unlike their archetypes be as strongly delineated and highly
coloured, as those in which the mind is delighted with the^
correspondence. Thii*dly, a philosophical talent requires the
most obstinate patience, and caution approaching to timi-
dity ; " a philosopher," says Bacoii', *' must always be sus-
picious of his own natural disposition, aud be continually On
the watcli, lest it lead him into error ;" it is incumbent oil
him as much as possible to stop the natural current of his
ideas, and fix his thoughts imumtably on one subject ; where-'
as a poet succeeds best by giving loose reins to his imagina-
tion, by following the impulse of passion, and indulging him-
self in that train of thought into which the mind is almost
imperceptibly led by the observation of some particular ob"

VOL. XII. I

,o8

jects. Even where there is no apparent object for reflection,
in the movements of unrestrained reverie, the suggestions of
the muse are often most propitious : Cowper seems to hint
that no inconsiderable portion of his beautiful poem, the
Task, was composed during the Hstless musings that attend
a single person, when he has taken his solitary seat by an
evening fire. To these we might perhaps add the circum-
stances, which Bacon, in the first, third and fourth instances
of what he calls idola tribus, enumerates as prejudicial to the
interests of philosoph}'.

If we should now proceed to examine all those less impor-
tant differences that arise from the peculiar modes of philo-
sophical and polite composition, it would not only extend
this essay to an improper length, but perhaps subject the
writer to the necessity of intruding himself into ground al-
ready pre-occupied by formal treatises on the subject. Un-
equal as he is to enter on questions of delicate criticism, and
too conscious of his own inability to venture into a competi-
tion with others of character deservedly high, he has re-
trenched several parts that might be claimed as their exclusive
property. And where the subject is of long continuance,,
and almost invites discussion from its nature, it is almost im-
possible to advance any thing valuable or important without
incurring the danger of repetition. 'Jims an objection has
been urged by Locke, and renewed with Fcdoubled force by
Warburton, that all figurative language is an abuse of words,,
that whatever exceeds the strict bounds of logical and meta-

physical accuracy is arbitrary and capricious, and therefore
to be avoided as a vice, particularly in philosophical and seri-
ous composition. This opinion they both seem to have formed
from a mistake of a censure passed by Lord Bacon, on the
old philosophers, for ornamenting their pieces with the graces
and elegances of rhetoric. " Auctoribus ipsis suspecta," says
he, " ideoque artificiis quibusdam munita fecere. But this
is not meant as a reprehension of an ornamented style in ge-
neral, but founded solely on the imperfect state of science
among them ; for so artful and ingenious was their method of
treating their subjects, that they succeeded in deceiving the
world into an opinion, that every science, which had received
the polish of their hands, was cultivated to the utmost possible
degree of perfection. The charge itself has been ably refuted
by Dr. Leland, in his Essay on Eloquence, and to mention any
thing here on the subject would be only to transcribe his in-
genious work. And though modern philosophers appear in
general to neglect the beauty of their language, or elegance
in arranging the parts of the question they consider, yet we
have a sufficient number to serve as instance? how much
might be done in this way. In metaphysics the style and
the matter of Stewart are equally topics for praise and ad-
miration; and the fragment of the Latin imitation of I,ocke,
by Mr. Gray, shews of what an exquisite degree of poetical
beauty the subject is susceptible, 'i'lie lectures of Davy will
be long remembered in this city for their eloquence and per-
.spicuity, and the Anti-Lucretius of Polignac abounfls in har-

maoious lines and happy expressions, though occasionally it
deserves the censure of Voltaire for the use of terms techni-
cally scientific.

Such are the opinions tliat have suggested themselves to
the author of this little essay on the question proposed by the
academy : he has purposely contracted it, in some places, for
the reasons mentioned above, and in others, the pressure of
ill health, and the necessary avocations of a more extended
and difficult pursuit have prevented him from paying that
attention, which the importance of the toj)ic required. Im-
perfect as it is, he would not have ventured to obtrude him*
self on the notice of the academy, were he not confident that
they would be disposed to look with indulgence, on even a
feeble endeavour to point out some of the advantages result-
ing from a combination of those studies, which have been
jointly and equally cherished in this country by their fostering
care. They have generously and successfully imdertaken the
erection of a temple to learning, where the strength and soli-
dity of science is combined with the light and graceful ele-
gance of polite literature, and cannot therefore be displeased
at the officiousness of him, who would wish " to * partake in
the work, though not in the inscription, content to assist
in the preparation of that cement, which is intended to unite
the various and diversified materinis employed in the con-
struction of the edifice itself."

jVCADEMICUS.

iJ :S 8 4. Y

INFLUENCE OF FICTITIOUS HISTORY

MODERN MANNERS.

" Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion.

And give it false presentments .....

I, under fair pretence of friendly ends.

And well placed words of glozing courtesy.

Baited with reasons not uuplausible.

Wind me into the easy-hearted man,

And hug liim into sparejs. MiLTOIt's Co»vs>

^T a period when so many works of imagination issue from
the press every, day giving birth to some new fiction, it
appears particularly seasonable, that a question, relative to^
the influence such productions may have on the manners of
the present age, should be instituted by an academy, whose
object has ever been the investigation of truth, and the ad-

vancement of science; and at the same time that I presume
to offer my sentiments upon the subject proposed, to the
notice of the academy, I would bespeak its indulgence — that
" Jiaf'5 f^ixgom," which only the wise, and the learned, are
capable of affording.

The power which fiction, from the remotest antiquity, has
usurped over the human mind, must be evident even to him
who is but little acquainted with the history of mankind —
but accurately to ascertain how much is to be ascribed to it,
rather than to other co-existent and powerful causes, is a
task that involves in it considerable difficulty, a difficulty
that will be found to apply even to those times, when the
influence of fiction must have been most felt; when it was
sought for with the greatest avidity, and received with the
most universal delight.

Before I enter on the more immediate subject of this
essay, which relates merely to modern times, it will be
agreeable, and I hope, will not be considered unnecessary,
to take a brief view of the origin of fiction, and of its influ-
ence upon the manners and morals of the Greeks and Ro-
mans ; should it be thought that, in so doing, I depart some-
what from the subject proposed, I desire to shield myself
under the authority of Dr. Johnson, who says, " To judge
rightly of the present, we must oppose it to the past, for all
judgment is comparative."*

• Rasselas.

In the early heroic times, the warrior was accustomed to
be roused by the songs of the bards, whicii reminded him of
the heroic actions of his ancestors, and which, set to music,
were impressed upon his memory, and were continually on
his lips, whether he joined the choruses of his countrymen,
or was in secret stimulated by them to deeds of fame. Thus
Homer has introduced Aehilles, sitting on the shore,, and
singing to his lyre.

" Tix a' [Jpoii ^fivcc iifiroiMyo) ^"f^jyyi Xiyitj,

Triv apir' ff ivajaiv, wloXiv 'HtTtaivos iXia-a-a;'

Tr &yi flufiM irsfTtv, aah J'«p« x^la av^fuii." II. ix.

And in a later age, we find Tyrtaeus animating the Spartans,
and leading them to battle, by the divine influence of his
poetry, in which he sung the renown of ancient warriors,
and set before them the rewards of valour ; victory, and its
attendants, glory and honour. We also find Solon employ-
ing the same means to excite the Athenians ta make war
upon the Megareans ; a subject, the bare mention of which,,
in sober prose, and stripped of the embellishments of fiction,
would have incurred the penalty of death.

But the poets, as they proceeded to study nature more in-
timately, and to seek the most powerful causes of things,
finding that the relation of human actions merely, however
illustrious, was insufficient for their purpose, sought the in-
tervention of supernatural agency. Men of such a profes-

sion as theira had little .to do with the reason and sober
judgment of their hearers, The imagination, and the pas-
sions, were to be wrought upon, for " there is something in
the mind of man, sublime and elevated, which prompts it to
overlook all obvious and familiar appearance, and to feign
to itself, other, and more extraordinarj." * Accordinglj^
the actions of several pei-sons are attributed to one, and those
actions adorned with every circumstance that could make
them interesting, or excite to emulation ; and that the glory
resulting from them might never be forgotten, or their bene-
fits lost to mankind, the hero that achieved them is exalted
into the assembly of the divinities, to watch over his fa-
voured votaries ; to infuse into their hearts his undaunted
spirit, aiad to give stren^h and energy to their bodies, It
cannot be' doubted that to the fictions of the poets may be
ascribed, in a great degree, the undaunted, and' warlike spirit
of the first ages.

Equally striking ai'e the effects of those fictions upon their
morals. The poets, ignorant of the true God, and' of the
Unity of the Divine perfections, divided amongst a number
of separate beings, what they imagined were attribu^tes of
deity ; -f- and in the creation of such imaginary beings, hav-

• Kurd's DissertatioiiSi

t The Pelasgians (according to Herodotus,) sacrificed and prayed to gods to whom
they gave no name, or distinguishing appellation, it was therefore the poets that iiitro.
ducfd th* belief of those numerous deities, and their names.

MiTFOKD's Grecian History, vol. i. p. 88:

ing no other standard to direct their fancies, were obliged to
enlarge the idea of some human creature, and at the same
time that they magnified his virtues, could not avoid magni-
fying also his vices. Hence, we are presented with the most
disgusting representations of every kind of vice in the ac-
tions of the heathen divinities. It is not the furies with their
snakes, or the abominable harpies that excite our abhor-
rence; no, it is the great God, that wields the thunder-bolt,
and at whose nod the earth trembles ! when we behold him,
exerting his omnipotence for the purpose of gratifying the
most disgraceful passions, and for the perpetration of the
most shocking crimes ; — it is the goddess of beauty, whose
magical charms awaken love and admiration in the bosoms
of gods and men ; when we behold her, instead of present-
ing those modest charms, ^nd that chaste deportment, which
give to beauty its highest perfection, displaying the wanton
and indelicate manners of an abandoned courtesan. We may
learn from a passage in Terence, how great encouragement to
dissoluteness those fictions were, in which was depicted the
immoral conduct of the gods : for we find a young man de-
claring with what greater willingness he was induced to com-
mit a crime, when accidentally reminded, that he Avas au-
thoFised by the example of the great God himself.

" At quem Deutft ? qui templa coeli summa sonitu conciitit.

Ego homuncio hoc non faceremt ego illud vero ita feci, ac lubens."

VOL. XIII. K

The scenes that were exhibited in the temples at the cele-
bration of some of the festivals, and the orgies of Bacchus,
are instances of the same kind, that cannot be thought of
without horror.

It is remarkable that the Roman people were eminent for
their virtue and chastity, until the time that Greece was sub-
dued by their arms. Five hundred years had elapsed, from
the foundation of their city, before a divorce was known at
Rome ; but as soon as this event took place, which was about
the time the Romans began to have intercourse with the
Greeks, the change in their manners is apparent, and this
change may be very well referred, at least in a considerable
degree, to the introduction of the fictions of the Grecian My-
thology, so that in this respect, as much as in the arts, may
it be said, " Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit."

Those law-givers, who annexed such severe punishments
to the breach of the conjugal vow, certainly adopted at the
same time the most effectual method of preventing it, by
erecting temples to chastity. Agreeabl}^ to this, we find
Numa, in order to make his people honest, transforming
Bona Fides into a goddess, and building a temple to her wor-
ship ; and perhaps it was owing to the want of such a device,
in the Grecian law-givers, that Greek knavery forms such a
contrast to Roman honesty ; and if we enquire into the
causes that made the Romans excel every other nation in the
ert and practice of war, we cannot avoid ascribing much im-

portance to the belief, that they were the children of Mars,
and under his peculiar protection.

With respect to prose compositions, that rank under the
class of fiction, there is reason to think that, generally speak-
ing, they were unknown to the Greeks and Romans ; how-
ever, we hear of the Milesian, Ionian, and Sybaritic Tales,
and" although they have perished, we know them to have
been of a licentious and immoral nature; we know also,
that these people were remarkable for effeminacy and immo-
rality above all the other inhabitants of Greece or Italy.
There is therefore here presumptive evidence, that their man-
ners and morals were much influenced by fictitious writings,
and vice versA,.

That the fictions of the poets contributed very much to
that taste and refinement which characterised the Greeks
more than any people that ever existed, cannot, I think, be
denied, especially when we consider that it is only in pro-
portion to his acquaintance with the writings in which these
fictions are found, that we are accustomed to give any man
the reputation of a refined and elegant scholar. It must be
admitted that there were other causes beside these, for th»
superior elegance of the Greeks, but nothing could be de-
vised more likely to produce it, than the machinery of the
poets. In a rich and beautiful country, on which nature had
profusely lavished her charms, it was impossible to turn
where some poetical fancy was not presented to the mind :
every meadow, and every grove abounded in its satyrs, and

hamadryads, and every fountain and river had its appro-
priate nymph or deity ; a rosy-fingered goddess unbarred
every morning the gates of the east, and they vrere closed in
the evening by another more sombre, but not less interesting
deity ; in short, no spot could be visited, that was incapable
of presenting to the view the most attractive and exquisite
imagery, *

But the Greeks, as is always the case, with their indepen-
dance, lost also their mental superiority among the nations,
and their genius and energies were left buried among the
ruins of their country.

If we again turn our eyes toward Italy, we shall find that
the subjugation of the Greeks changed as well the manners,
as the nlorals, of their conquerors. The rough and brutal
iiianners of the old Roman were, by degrees, lost in the re-
finement and elegance of the Greek. The Grecian writers
exclusively occupied the attention of the Roman student,
and their greatest geniuses aspired only to the glory of imi-
tating them. For several ages, the Latin language had been
adopted by the learned in every nation of Europe; but it
was destined to undergo the fate of the Greek. About the
beginning of the eighth century, the Arabians entering
Spain, and establishing the seat of their empire at Cordova,
changed the language of the country.

• See L'Introduction au Voyage du Jeune Anacharsis.

69^

This peru^d, the darkest of the European annals, was the
time when^ Arabian literature was in its most flourishing
State.

" The Saracens," (to use the words of Mr. Gibbon,)
confident in the riches of their native tongue, and disdain-
ing the study of any .foreign idiom, deprived themselves of
the principal benefit of a familiar intercourse with Greece
and Rome, the knowledge of antiquity, purity of taste, and
freedom of thought ; so that there is no example of a poet,
orator, or even historian, being taught to speak the language
W of the Saracens. Cordova, with a few adjacent towns, gave

birth to more than three hundred writers, and a library was
formed, that consisted of 600,000 volumes."* The efi'ect of
all this on the Europeans was what might have been with
reason expected. A manuscript cited by Du Cange acquaints
us, that the Spaniards, soon after the irruption of the Sara-
cens, neglected the study of Latin, and captivated by the no-
velty of the oriental tales imported by the Saracens, suddenly
adopted a pomp of stile, and an affected elevation of dic-
tion I and the ideal tales of these eastern invaders, recom-
mended by a brilliancy of description, a variety of imagery
and an exuberance of invention, were eagerly caught up,
and universally diffused. -f- These tales passed over from
Spain into France and Italy, and from thence to the north :
and when the Europeans afterwards flocked in such numbers

* Roman Empire, vol. x.

t Warton's first Dissertation, Hist. English Poetry, vol. i.

around the standard of the cross, and " legions of poets"
accompanied the ; nnies to the Holy Land, religion and su-*
perstition, with their saints and daemons, in those hetero-
geneous compositioms, were engrafted with the eastern ideas
of magic and dragons, and in course of time with theGothic
ideas of female excellence, and phantastic honour — to which
may be added, the ideas of magnificence derived also from
the east, the vast distance from whence, gave the greater
force and credibility to their fictions.

Thus we find the Arabians uniting with the Scandinavians
in forming a new and irregular species of composition, which
was to be as various in its effects, as the characters and man-
ners of the nations it embraced ; and if, in taking this re-
trospect, we find that the purity of style, and dehcacy of
taste of the classic authors was thus for a season entirely
lost, -we shall have less reason to regret it when we reflect
that a too servile imitation of those exquisite models, had
they been more diffused, might have fettered genius, and
restrained the sublime flights of untutored imagination ; we
may-even presume that the empire of literature has on this
account been extended and enlarged. *

* Mr. Warton very ingeniously reconciles his own hypothesis, namely, that the Ara-
bians were the authors of romantic fiction in Europe, with that of the Bishop of Dro-
more, who derives it from the ancient songs of the Gothic bards and scalds; and with
the testimony of Mons. Mallet, the Danish historian, who'isof the same opinion. Mr.
Warton brings forward many proofs of the eastern origin of some of the Scandina-
vian tribes: first, that they are said to have emigrated witlr their leader Odin, imme-

Having, as briefly as possible, considered the effects of
fiction in general, upon the m;inners of the ancient Greeks
and Romans ; I come now to more modern times, and to en-
quire what influence is to be ascribed to those particular pro-
ductions which rank under the denomination of romances
and novels. I have already glanced at their origin, which
is plainly oriental.

The term romance has been traced by Monsieur Huet to
the Provenpal Troubadours, who composed their songs in a
language that was a mixture of Latin and Gallic,, and on this
account called romanz or romance; but although the bi-
shop wrote expressly on the origin of that particular species
of composition, to which they give the name, he has entirely
relinquished the most important part of his subject (whicL
would have been the romances of chivalry) contenting him-
self with giving a dry detail of the poems of the Provencal
Troubadours, to which the others have hardly any other rela-
tion, than similarity of name.* From Mons. Huet, we obtain

diately after the overthrow of Mithridates, from the region of Asia, now called Georgia,
and to have settled in Norway and Denmark : And secondly, the remarkable, and <;on-
spicuous similarity between many of the customs of the Asiatics, of tlie Georgians iu
particular, and those of the inhabitants of the nortli, even at this day.

*i»ii[ >' >- 1 Warton's Hist, of English Poetrj*, vol. i.

* Mr. W^arton is of opinion, that there were two sorts of French troubadours, that

are not sufficiently distinguished : that the poetry of the first consisted of satires,

moral fables, allegories, and sentimental sonnets; and that the latter' class composed

metrical romances, which formed a distinct species, and ought to be considered sepa«

little else than a list of these poems, and the names of some
Greek authors, who flourished in the decline of the Roman
Empire, amongst whom the most remarkable is Heliodorus,
Bishop of Trica, who was deprived of his bishopric, for be-
ing the author of Theagenes and Chariclea, which was then
supposed to have baneful effects upon the manners of youth,
though it is not at present considered as having such a ten-
dency.

The earliest specimens we have of romance, as it existed
for a long period in Europe, are the histories of Arthur and
Charlemagne, compiled, as is supposed, from ancient legends,
by Geoffry of Monmouth, and Turpin, the monk, in the ele-
venth century, though some imagine them to be as old as
the eighth. The high veneration in which these histories
were held, and the enthusiasm which a bare recital of them
was calculated in particular circumstances to produce, is
demonstrated by a fact recorded in our own annals of the
Minstrel Taillifer, who, at the battle of Hastings, advanced
before William's army, singing the songs of Charlemagne and
Roland.

These histories gave birth to innumerable others, but it
was chivalry, and the croisades, that afforded the most abun-
dant materials and encouragement to fictitious history.

lately ; they seem to have commenced at a later period, and not until after the croisades
Jiad effected a^reat change in tl»e manners and ideas of the western world.

Hist. English Poetry.

73 '

The institution of chivalry was founded originally in princi-
ples of humanity and justice. When the different kingdoms of
Europe were broken and divided into several smaller states;
and when the weakness of the law had enabled the more
powerful baron, without any risk to himself, to do violence
to those whom age, profession, or sex, had rendered inca-
pable of resisting him ; — some kind of protection was re-
quired, more ready in its application, and more permanent
in its effects, than Avhat could be derived from the casual ex-
ertions of a neighbouring chieftain, however virtuous, or
however courageous.

To redress some of the grievances that would naturally
arise from such a state of society, was the object of the in-
stitution ; an object worthy of admiration 1 nor can we avoid
attributing a considerable degree of ingenuity to a scheme
that was calculated to keep alive the martial spirit of the
times, (which was then of the highest importance,) by the
exercise of virtues, in all other cases so incompatible with it.
For it was not merely the martial spirit that was cherished by
this means; " Les preceptes," says Mons. de la Curne de
Ste. Palaye, * " renferm^s dans le serment de la Chevalerie,
sont le germe de toute la morale repandue dans les Ouvrages
de nos Poetes, et de nos Romanciers :" And by paying some
regard to those circumstances, we shall be tolerably well able
to estimate the reciprocal importance of chivalry and ro-

VOL. XII. L

* Memoires de TAcademic des Inscriptions, &o Tom. xx.

mance. Chivalry was certainly the parent of romance ; but
the refiuenieut and sentiments then new to the European
world, which the institution of chivalry introduced, must
have been necessarily confined to courts, and to the higher
orders, for a much longer period than was actually the case,
had not romance, in a manner, multiplied the number of
knights, and presented as in a mirror, to all classes of so-
ciety, the resemblance of what was acting in courts, and in
camps, heightened generally by the enthusiasm of unfettered
genius. The fact that it was to the old romances we are in-
debted for the -most perfect information which has been af-
forded to us on the subject of chivalry, by Mons. de Ste.
Palaye, v/ho acknowledges that he derived it from them, is
sufficient to make us view those productions in a light mu^h
less ridiculous than we have been accustomed to do ; in the
same manner as the exhibition of a lady and gentleman
dressed according to the costume of those times would be
highly interesting, notwithstanding the smile they might
excite.

Theiruth and reality of the representations of the romance

writers is also proved by a curious document preserved by

Montfaucon,* which informs us that raany of the romances

-of the fourteenth century owed their origin to a register which

every knight was obliged to make of his yearly adventures,

.and to place in some castle : nor is this proof invalidated by

* MoDumeDS de la Mouarcbie Franj^aise.

the enchanters, dragons, and other absurdities that were in-
termingled with the adventures ; it is rather confirmed by
them, as such was the popular belief of the times. In an-
other point of view, the early romances must be considered
important; they were the first productions written in the
vernacular tongue, and were what first made learning popu-
lar. The Provenpal writers led the way, by writing in a lan-
guage intelligible to the ladies and common people : It was
from them Dante formed his idea of writing his Inferno in
Italian, and not, as he had originally intended, in Latin :
To which circumstance may be traced the perfection of the
Italian and of the other European languages.

Candour thus obliges us to regard the romances, as favour-
able to the progress of literature ; at the same time it must be
admitted, that they were made use of by the monks, the au-
thors of most of them, to cherish a spirit of superstition and
fanaticism, very inimical to it. Mons. de Ste. Pala3'e, further
informs us that the object of the writers of romances was to
excite to emulation ; and had they been actuated by a spirit
of genuine Christianity, we might have seen the most bene-
ficial consequences resulting from their influence ; — but in all
their compositions there was such a mixture of profaneness
and immorality with religion, as could not fail of having the
most injurious tendency : They inculcated beside, the ridi-
culous punctilio of defending women, even on occasions the
most dishonourable — We must therefore differ from a learned

and judicious critic, * who considers tlvose romances as com-
positions of the " truly moral and heroic kind ;" had this been
the case, they would not surely have excited the complaints,
invectives, and sermons of the most excellent and zealous
men in Europe. Beside, if we consider the grossness of
the manners of those times, it is highly improbable that
such writings would have been so eagerly caught up, and so
universally admired, had they not been accommodated to the
depraved taste of the readers, -f-

I might have thought it necessary, perhaps, to give further
proofs of the dangerous consequences resulting from tire old
romances, and of the power which they possessed over the
minds of persons of all descriptions, had not the great Cer-
vantes, in his admirable Don Quixotte, exhausted every thing
that could, or need, be said upon the subject ; and demon-
strated, by the success of his work, that no other mode of
attack, than that which he adopted, would have been at-
tended with equal success. It is remarkable that Cervantes
had been anticipated by Chaucer, in his attempt to ridicule
these productions, and also, in his manner of doing so. I
shall be excused for quoting a passage from the Letters of
Bishop Hurd, in which he makes us acquainted with the
motives that induced our venerable poet to compose a Tale
(the Rhyme of Sir Thopas,) at a period, when the manners
of romance were almost realised. " We are to observe,"
says his lordship, " that this is Chaucer's own Tale, and that

• Dr. Blair. t Don, G. Mayan's Life of Cervantes.

,iu the progress of it, tlit good seiis6 of the host ii rtiad6 to
ji^reak in upon him, and interrupt him. Chaucer approves
l)is disgust, and changing his note, tells the simple tale of
Meliboeus, a vioral tale, vertuous, as he terms it, to shew what
sort of fictions were most expressive of real life, and most
proper to be put into the hands of the people. It is further
to be noted, that the Boke of the Giant Oliphant, and Chyle,
Thopas, was not a fiction of his own, but a story of antique
frame, and very celebrated in the days of chivalry : so that
nothing could better suit the author's design of discrediting
the old romances, than the choice of this venerable legend,
for the vehicle of his satire upon them." He adds, " the
ridicule Chaucer bestowed upon them, hastened the fall of
both chivalry and romance."* ,4 \^k

The character, which truth has made it necessary to give
of the old romances, will not apply to the more modern ones
of Sir Philip Sidney, &c. &c. and of " Scudery dont la fer-
tile plume, pent tons les mois sans peine, enfanter un vo-
lume." f They, however, revived the " Old Court of
Leve" and the mode of spiritualising and abstracting the
passion, which had such an effect upon the manners of the
French people, as has never been effaced ; and if we con-
sider the character, with regard to love, of a nation which was
so very much engrossed with those subjects ; :J: we must con-
clude that their tendency is very unfavourable to virtue,

* Kurd's Letters on Chivalry and Romance. f Boileau. • ^

t L'Academie Franpaise traita dans ces premieres seances plusieurs sujets qui concer-
noient ramour, I'on rit encore dans I'hotel de Longueville, les personnes les plus qua-

•

.78

Though the form that fictitious writing has assumed within
the last century, is doubtless of a very different kind from
all that we have hitherto been considering, and though se*
veral causes now unite to prevent romances and novels from
being so influential on manners, as in the infancy of society ; —
yet, when we reflect that they are in the hands of every one,
without distinction of age, sex, or condition, we can scarcely
avoid attributing to them a considerable degree of import-
ance. We observe that people generally catch the manners
of those they associate with ; that the artisan is distinguish-
able from the man of fashion ; and the scholar, from both —
such are the effects of different associations : from the gene-
ral laws of which it is not to be expected that the readers
of fictitious history should be exempted : the manners of
these, no doubt, are influenced by those of the imaginary
society they keep, and with which they are delighted. It re-
mains for me to seek out, if possible, how far this influence
extends.

Two causes combine to diminish the influence of fictitious
history : first, the present advanced state of civilisation ; and,
secondly, the sort of writing now denominated fictitious.
With regard to the first, it is pretty certain that fiction, pro-
perly so called, can only be conceived to operate powerfully

lifi6s et les plus spirituelles du siecle de Louis qnatorze »e disputer a qui commenteroit
et rafiineroit le mieux sur la delicatesse du coeur, et des sentiinens, a qui feroit sur cc
chapitrr, les distinctions les plus subtiles.

Menioires de TAcademie des Inscriptions, Tom. xx.

79^

upon an unenlightened, and unpolished people; and that of
course, the most effectual remedy to appose to it, is cultiva-
vation and refinement: in these the last century, has wit-
nessed extraordinary advances, of which we need no greater
proof, than the encreasing discredit into which superstitious-
stories have fallen ; our mother^, and our aunts may remem--
ber when cows were elf-struck, and when the sudden ap-
pearance of a witch or ghost was dreaded on every occasion,
but such notions make no part of the present vulgar creed »
they have been buried with the dead, and would never again,
perhaps, have been summoned up to light, were it not for
tlie Gothic propensity of some of our modern writers, to
rake up all the antiquated stuff of the darkest ages, as if
they thought it a pity it should sink into oblivion.
' A high state of civilisation is a preventive of the power
of fiction, in another respect also. Commerce, and much
intercourse with the world, will," by degrees, efface those
strong and marked characters, by which, nations, at various
periods are distinguished ; and the existence of which, is es-
sentially necessary, in order that a particular cause may act
with the greatest possible energy. Thus, the spirit of war,
combined with that of gallantry, formed the distinguishing
features of the middle ages ; whence, it is easy to be con-
ceived, that at this period, the reading of romances would
greatly inflame those passions, which we know to have been
the fact; but, as an attempt to pourtray the character of the
present times would be difficult indeed, so, it would be

equally difficult to conceive how any new effect could be
wrought upon Europeans, by means of fiction, unless we
might perhaps except the Spanish nation, which has been
so recently converted by one species of fiction, from the ab-
surdities introduced by another; taking also into account,
the prejudice and ignorance which the policy of the Inquisi-
sition has obliged them to retain. "With regard to the French,
we know they. have been always remarkable for their polite-
ness and gallantry ; we know also, that it was by the French,
the romantic mode of fabling had been earliest and most cul-
tivated ; that it never was lost from among them ; and that
they continued superior to all other nations in that depar-
ment of literature. Their constant reading of this kind of
books is sufficient to account for that extraordinary attach-
ment and devotedness to the fair sex, for which Frenchmen
have been remarkable, beyond their neighbours, and which
continued to the time of the revolution ; since that period,
French manners form a striking contrast to what they for-
merly were, and we have reason to suppose, that as the
manners have been in some degree changed, so has their
fondness for those compositions, by which they were che-
rished,

- The fiaiTie observation holds, with regard to individuals.
Cultivation, improvement, and a desire for truth, will pro-
portionably diminish the eftects of fictitious Avriting. When
the mind has been previously enlarged and invigorated by
feeing exercised with truth, and by habits of thinking and

judging, the illusions of fancy may amuse for a moment,
they may even sometimes transport, but they can gain no
ascendency. It is therefore for the young and inexperienced,
for the ignorant and the idle, that we are interested in the
present enquiry. Nor is it so much to the higher classes of
SMiciety that we are to look for the ill effects of fictitious his-
tory— as it cannot be supposed that much additional injury
can be sustained by persons who read of follies, dissipation
or vices, with which they are perpetually conversant. It is
the middle and lower classes that suffer most by publications,
through the medium of which, they are introduced to man-
ners they would otherwise have remained strangers to. If it
were not for the circulating libraries of the neighbouring
towns, the daughters of farmers might remain contented and
happy in the humble circle of domestic enjoyment, which
Providence had allotted them ; but the comparison they are
taught to make between their own homely occupations, and
the brilliant glare of fashion's fascinating pursuits, frequently
leads to the most lamentable consequences, which every
day's experience too sadly proves. Hence— deluded by the
seducer, who held out the hope of treading those paths
which fancy had learned to delight in — the simple girl,
after having forsaken her aged parents, and her home,
finds every thing too true that she had anticipated in the
scenes of dissipation, except the ideal happiness supposed to
be inseparably connected with them. Another cause which
diminishes the influence of fictitious histories in the present

VOL. XII. ' M

day is, tliat tlic nnmher of them is really cojisiderabiy less
now than formerly — for the term, " fictitious," caa scarcely,
with projsriety of speech, be applied to novds : " To catcli
the manners, living, as they rise," seems to be the principal
aim of the novelist : and — though they may be pi'Oiductive (if
I may use the expression) of fictitious consequences, by
teaching the young to assume characters not their own — yet
portraits of vice, or of virtue, merely, however highly co-
loured, can hardly be deemed fictitious, and such must the
characters drawn in novels be considered ; all of them — the
faultless, or the " monstrum non una virtute redemptum" ex-
cepted— having their archetypes in real life. In order then,
to estimate aright the consequences arising from the uni-
versal avidity with which the innumerable swarms of novels
are read, that have already issued, and are daily issuing from
all the presses of Europe, we should regard them, not in
the light of fictions, which, by giving false views of thino-s,
might unfit the inexperienced mind for the sober business of
life, or hurry it into the vagaries of romantic enthusiasm;
but of being too faiihful transcripts of all the tollies and vices
of a luxurious and corrupted age; and the medium for con-
veying to the unwary minds, the poison of infidelity, and of
contempt for whatever is truly estimable in religion or morals.
From tlie very extensive circulation which novels are known
to have, some persons of great talents and virtue have been
of opinion that they might be made of infinite use ; and some
have, even themselves condescended to become novel writers;

but, as tUeir object was more to instruct than to please, or
rather to make tlie latter entirely subservient to the fornier,
their works are not read, or at most are only read by people
of taste and information. Such is the fate of Johnson'? llas-
selas, and of Guadentio di Lucca, a work ascribed to one of
the most illustrious philosophers ; * nor will this appear sur-
prising, when w? consider that the readers of novels are
usually the most illiterate part of the community. It is not
to he denied that such a form of writing might be made tlie
vehicle of wholesome moral instruction, which to a certain
jclass.of readers would not perhaps be unpalatable: but to
suppose that any extensive benefit would follow from such a
plan is to attribute to the generality of readers, a talent
for selection and discrimination, that exclusively belongs to
cultivated intellect.

It is not enough, that a novel abounds in moral sentiments ;
the whole story should be so constituted, as to convey an
important lesson: but if every page have introduced uMnto
the company of vicious characters ; if we have been in-
duced, in our progress through the book, to smile at vice,
or to sympathise vyith the feelings of the libertine— can the
useful moral thrown into the last pfige, or into t\\e last line be
able to obliterate the bad impressions of all that went be-
fore ? unquestionably not. — In order, therefore, to make
novels useful, care should be taken to mark vice and folly
with abhorrence and contenipt, and to paint with all the
clearness of which language is susceptible, the disgrace and

* Bishop Berkeley.

infamy that should ever be represented as inseparable from
immorahty and vice — so clearly, that the most careless reader
could not avoid sefeino; the connection. If such a rule is ne-
cessary, in order to make novels a medium of usefulness to
the community, what must be the consequence, when that
rule is always inverted ? — which, with very few exceptions,
we know to be the fact. The truth is, that emolument is
the chief object about which novel writers are concerned.
If this result from their works, every wish is fully gratified,
and every end which had been proposed, attained.

I have, indeed, supposed it possible, that novels might be
made productive of beneficial effects : but to multiply them,
in the hope of such a result, I am fully of opinion, would
})rove a Utopian scheme; for * when the mind is much ha-
bituated to, or much conversant with fiction, however inno-
cent or moral, it is unfitted for the reception of historic
truth; in this exercise, the imagination alone is employed,
whilst the mind or reasoning faculty remains perfectly in-
active and useless.

Though it is pretty obvious that most of the evils that
ensue from the constant reading of fictitious history, apply
to the female, rather than to the male sex, yet, if it can ap-

* This reason will equally apply to the methods ^hich have been latterly adopted, in
erder to c/waf the risijig generation into learninjr, which is to loe offeclcil, according to
the modern plan, by means of fictitious histories, which have been multiplied to an
amount, which must be alarming to thoie that are really interested for true learning and
science.

pear, that from the same source, the lieart may be corruptet^r
the principles undermined, or the imagination defiled, then
they apply equally to both sexes. Women, however, seem
40 be especially interested in the present enquiry, because
they are more generally devoted to novel reading, than men ;
and because their habits of life, and education, instead of
being calculated to correct the defects of a more flexible tem-
perament, seem as if they were intended to encourage them.
Hence, imagination, which, if properly regulated, would
be a very great source of pleasure, becomes rather produc-
tive of misery and misfortune; and, of all the means that
were ever invented, in order to strengthen the imagination^
in opposition to the reasoning faculty, to weaken or destroy
the moral as well as the intellectual sense, and to engender
all the innumerable evils that rau&t follow of course, novels
have been most successful.

This leads me to endeavour to seek out some of the reasons
which may be assigned in proof of tho foregoing assertion*
To unfold all their consequences, would require, indeed^

" A master's hand, and prophet's fire !"

For greater clearness, modern novels may be divided into
the two classes of humourous, and sentimental. The former ge-
nerally exiiibit human nature in its degraded state ; they at-
tempt to paint the worst feelings of the human heart ; to in-
troduce the, reader to the dregs of society,' and into every
haunt of vice. By means of these, the young man — " cereus-

in vitium fiecti/' before he has yet hh the paternal inansionj
is fully initiated into the manners and language of liostlcrgj
rakes, bullies, gaming tables, &c. &c. — in short, he is made
to " see with the eyes" of Fielding and Smollet, many tbinga
which his own shallow observation would never perhaps have
noted. The parting advice, and waraing voice of affec-
tionate parents, cannot be supposed to produce any great
effects upon one who has already learned, that vice is not,
either in itself, or its consequences, what their prejudices have
taught them to believe: on the contrary, he is cer/«/« that a
man's being a spendthrift, a gamester, and a debauchee, does
not prevent him from being well received in society, or frouj
obtaining the beauteous and virtuous object of bis affections,
and he is prepared to regard sedate manners, and cautious
conduct, only as the mask which is to conceal the hypocrisy
and villainy of a Blifil,

Every candid person must acknowledge, that this is the
view of things presented by the perusal of Tom Jones ;
which, as it unquestionably holds the highest place amongst
this species of composition, is not improperly noticed here.

The biographer of Pielding, in his observations upon that
author's principal work, in the ^e.\\ words which he uses to
describe the character of the hero, happens to point out the
moral of the book, as plainly, as if he had done so inten-
tionally. " Tom Jones," says he, "as much a libertine as
he is, engages all sensible hearts, by his candour, generosity,
humanity, his gratitude to his benefactor, his tender compos-

sion, nnd readiijpss to relieve the distressed."* So then, ac-
cording to this writer, true libertinism is a term which may
comprehend in it the virtues " generosity, candour, hu-
manity, gratitude, tender compassion," ^c. &c. or at least,
not exclude them. This is new logic, but certainly not what
Mr. liocke, or any ot" his disciples would countenance. It
is, however, the logic of Ubtrtinism, and may serve to shew
us the advances which the modern writers have made in the
subject of Ethics. But to be serious ;^s it possible that
on the least reflection, any one can think that the virtues
ascribed to Tom Jones could belong to, or be at all com-
patible with his character.'* I will not suppose that one " sen-
sible heart" will reply to this question in the afiirmative, and
therefore do not hesitate to declare positively, that they can-'
not? but in doing so, I still adhere to the old-fashioned inter-
pretation of words and things : for instance,-^! consider with
Johnson, a libertine to be " a man who lives without restraint
or law, who pays no regard to the precepts of religion;" I
consider libertinism and irreligion to be so closely allied, as
to regard them nearly as synonymous terms; and therefore,
cannot comprehend the meaning of the ^'humanity," that is
exercised in degrading and ruining that sex, of which man
should be the protector and guardian ; or of the " genero-
iity" that" robs of that which not enriches him, but makes
btr poor indeed." All the other virtues, supposed not to be

* S«e last edition of Fielding's works, yol. i. p. JQJ.

.88

excluded from meaning of the term liheriinism, might in the
same manner be shewn to be equally incompatible with it :
but perhaps it is sufficient to ask in the words of the gospel,
" do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles ? A good
tree cannot bring forth evil fruit; neither can a corrupt tree
bring forth good fruit."

On the other hand, to introduce profligate characters, for
the purpose of exposing them to shame and ridicule, is a
dangerous experiment. As Swift's " directions to servants"
are said to have spoiled more good servants than corrected
bad ones, by teaching tricks, which otherwise would not
have been thought of; so, the high-coloured pictures of vice
and folly drawn in novels, leave on the inexperienced mind,
such copies of their reality, as the good moral of the work
is but ill calculated to efface.

It is rather a curious circumstance, and worthy to be
noted, that notwithstanding the manifest evil tendency of
the novels of Fielding, he professes most solemnly, that
" to recommend goodness, and innocence, has been his sin-
cere desire/' and he " hopes that nothing will be found in the
whole course of his work, prejudicial to the cause of virtue
and religion, nothing inconsistent with the strictest rules of
<3ecency, or which can offend the chastest eye on the pe-
jrusal." In these his pious desires, as well as in the method
lie adopted to put them into execution, he has been followed
universal!}' by the multitude of novel writers who have suc-
ceeded him, from Marmontel, to G. M. Lewis, author of

the Monk,* and who, although they have fallen infinitely
short of him in genius and talents, have certainly much sur-
passed him in the method of conveying sentiments of virtue
and religion to inexperienced minds !

Before I take my leave of this class, I cannot help ex-
pressing some regret, that the species of fictitious history,
which, as it has been employed by Cervantes, appears to be
the safest, or least injurious method of entertaining by fic-
tion, has been almost entirely occupied by writers of the
basest principles, and loosest morals. For in other hands we
have sometimes seen that humour may possibly be accom-
panied by decency and morality ; that relaxation, if neces-
sary, may be aft'orded to the mind, without causing debi-
lity, and amusement without depravity ; and that the fancy
may be deliglvted, without any dangerous lesson being con-,
veyed to the heart.

In entering upon that part of the subject, which involves
the consideration of sentimental novels, I am so impressed
with the conviction of the numerous evils that result from
them, that I am led to say, in the words of Tasso, to those^
who have as yet escaped from their dangerous influence,

" Guarda, cbe inal fato,
'' ^ • O giuvenal \ aghezza, noo ti ai^ni

Ai n^aga^ino de k ciaocie, ah fuggi! ,

Fuggi quel' iucantato allpgiamento.
Qui\i habitan le Maghe, che incantando
Far traveder; e traudir ciascuna." ■ ; • '

* See particolatly in prodf of this, " Pursuits of Literet«re;" -Dial, iv, p. 8-40.
VOL. XII. N

To place every thing that is important in a wrong point of
- view ; to corrupt the taste, and undermine the morals, is
the business of- these enchanters, in which, under pretence of
doing the reverse, they have been, unhappily, most success-
ful. At first sight indeed, it is not easy to discover, that false
views of life and manners are presented, when the professed
object is to paint them with accuracy ; that the taste can be
corrupted by writers versed in polite literature, and who all
aim at expressing their thoughts in language the most pa-
thetic or sublime ; or that the morals can be undermined by
not only cherishing the tender and sentimental affections,
but working them up to a degree of the most exquisite sen-
sibility.— Paradoxical as all this may appear to some, it i&
nevertheless true, nor can any solitary instance which may be
adduced to prove the contrary, weaken the evidence of
countless multitudes. Even Richardson himself, who was
more anxious to inculcate principles of morality than most
of his imitators, might plead guilty to this indictment; for
in Clarissa, and Pamela, he has not only placed his prin-
cipal characters in situations the most improbable, and un-
natural, but in doing so, has unfolded scenes, totally inconsis-
tent with morality, or even with common decency ; and has
given such a degree of importance to vice, by making it the
whole aim and occupation of his male characters — the busi-
ness in which ingenuity, talents, and money are all employed
and consumed as can hardly fail to make an impression
upon youthful fancies, unfavourable to virtue. In the love of

Pamela for the abandoned seducer, there is something greatly
repugnant to delicacy, besides its being a precedent, which
in some degree authorises a virtuous young woman to hold a
parley with a seducer, an incident which has been greatly
improved upon in the more modern novels.

But after all those objections, an'd many more that might
be urged, perhaps there is more danger to be comprehended
from many writers, who have taken care to avoid all appear-
ance of grossness, or indelicacy, but who, (in the words of
an excellent writer) * " have made the least refined affec-
tions of humanity lose their indelicate nature in the eyes. of
many, when dignified by the epitliet o^ sentimental, and have
made a softened appellation give a gracefulness to moral:
deformity."

There is not any more natural way of accounting for the
greatly increased multiplication of those trials that are the
disgrace of our daily newspapers, than the light manner in
which the breach of the seventh commandment is treated in
novels ; considered in this point of view, the Julies, and Del-
phines of Frances, have greatly afforded to the moralist sub-
jects for animadversion: and even one of our own country
women has thought proper to make the hero of her tale,
(who is the person for. whose feelings, and affections, the
young, the tender, and perhaps the virtuous, are to be in-
terested, and to sympathise with,) guilty of a crime, m.
«

* VJceiitMus Knox.

many countries subject to the punishrrfent of a cruel death,
and which is, in all, attended with infamy.

Since then, a novel is the only place, where the violator of
the most sacred laws of God, and of his country, can boast
of his deeds in levity of language and jocularity of spirit, and
where his father, whilst he mildly blames him for what he
would term indiscretions, can remind him df his " innate
rectitude" and of his " splendid virtues;" I would earnestly
Avish, that they, whose manners are yet uncontammated,
would look with a jealous, and guarded eye, upon what are
apparently so inviting — " Latet Anguis in herba."

But it is not the levity, merely, with which these breaches
of the moral law are treated, that should make novels be re-
garded as tending to encrease the corruption of manners: —
false ideas respecting all those things in which consist the
true happiness and honour of a woman, are to be drawn
from them. The man who is so fortunate as to enjoy the
luxury of finding his home always peaceful and happy, will
be best able to judge whether the qualities that make the
greatest figure in the world, or excite the most admiration and.
notice, are really the most valuable, or are what have chiefly
contributed to make his situation enviable. He will un-
doubtedly judge the contrary to be true; but it can hardly
be expected, that any girl, who has been much addicted to
novel reading, will cordially agree with him in this opinion :
for her heroines are never suffered to appear without making

conquests, or without receiving the perpetual incense of flat-
tery : they are ever to be found in ball-rooms, and at mm-
queradesy where they, of course, meet with the most excel-
lent,, saperlatively wise^ and accomplished husbands, whom^
notwithstanding,, these discerning fair-ones do not unfre-
quemtly select ft-ora a knot of illiterate rakes. Nor should
we forget: the uncommon share of personal beauty, that sel-
dom fails to accompany their other perfections, which, beside
teaching, a young lady to set an immoderate value upon itj
eauses her to form in her mind inseparable associations be-
tween personal graces and moral aincl intellectiral endow-
ments—assoeiations which are as likely to be injurious to
happiness and good morals, as tbey are inconsistent with
truth and experience. *

Many other evik arising from fictitious history (considered
in this point of view) might be enumerated, but as they have
been already touched upon by so able and elegant a writer
as Professor Stewart, I will content myself, for the most part,
with referring to his chapters " on the influence of imagina-
tion upon human character and happiness," -f- but shall be

* Vbow very diflferent in this respect, the impression is, which authentic, and fictitious
history is calculated to produce, may be agreeably illustrated by a reference to Lord
Clarendon's History of his own Life, vol. i. and iii. where, in the character of Lord ■
Falkland, he has finely contrasted the disadvantages of his person with the excellencies -
of his mind; and in that of Sir Charles Cavendish, he has afforded a lesson, adoiirably
ealculated to counteract the prejudices iu favour of these false associatiens.

t Philosophy of the human mind.

94.

excused for adopting his words here, in order to shew that
the mind which has been accustomed to high wrought scenes
of distress, and which is made " trembhngly alive" to the
representation of fictitious sorrows, will be incapable of af-
fording that useful and active sympathy, which it is neces-
sary to exert, in order to relieve the less shining miseries of real
life'. " Exhibitions of fictitious distress tend to strengthen
those passive impressions which counteract beneficence. The
scenes into which the novelist introduces us, are, in general,
perfectly unlike those which occur in the world. As his ob-
ject is to please, he removes from his descriptions every cir-
cumstance that is disgusting, and presents us with histories
of elegant and dignified distress. It is not such scenes that
human life exhibits. We have to act with the mean, the illi-
terate, the vulgar, and the profligate. The perusal of ficti-
tious history ^has a tendency to encrease that disgust which
\ve naturally feel at the concomitants of distress, and to cul-
tivate a false refinement of taste, inconsistent with our con-
dition, as members of society ; — nay, it is possible for this
refinement to be carried so far, as to withdraw a man from
the duties of life, and even from the sight of those distresses
which he might alleviate; and accordingly many are to be
found, who, if the situations of romance were realised, would
not fail to display the virtues of their favourite characters,
whose sense of duty is not sufficiently strong to engage tlu?ni
in the huluble and private scenes of human misery."

It may appear strange to some, that amongst all the ills
which are supposed to result from novels, I have omitted the
mention of romantic love, the subject with which they all be-
gin, proceed, and en J. The truth is, I have not forgotten it,
but I have been obliged to remember that it is the effect of
fictitious history upon modern manners, I am desirous to eli-
cit : upon which love, if he were to appear in his own shape,
or under the more attractive form of his mother, would find
that he had lost his power : and would be obliged to assume
the semblance of old Plutus, or of the blind goddess, before,
his arrows (though sharpened upon the most bloody whet-
stone) could be able to produce a single scar.

Although much more might be offered upon this subject,
yet from what has been said, 1 believe it is pretty clear that
novels hold no trifling rank among the various sources to-
which the acknowledged corruption of modern manners might
be ascribed. With respect to the consideration whether they
affect the taste and literature of the times, it is obvious, that
for the most part, an intoxicating spirit of levity, and an
excessive love of ornament, have in modern compositions, oc-
cupied the place of sound judgment and classical purity ;
and that the desire after novelty usually prevails over every
other consideration. Hence, the modern poet disclaims those
rules of art, that have for so many ages given strength and
stability to the production of genius ; and hence, even the
historic page assumes a form assimilated to fiction, or actually
partaking of it. To ascribe all this to the multiplication of

fictitious history, would be going rather too far, as the true
cause must be sought in the excessive refinement and luxury
of the times.

But if it be granted, that fictitious history, — a species
of composition which has been occupied by writers of va»
rious denominations often ignorant and often depraved ; a
species of composition calculated to interest the imagina-
tion, engage the sympathy, and stimulate the passions of
youth, at that period of life, which generally decides the
moral and literary character; if it be granted that it has
contributed to the corruption of morals, then, the connec-
tion is so close between them, that no farther argument
can be required to prove that they equally affect taste and
manners.

I am well aware that it may be deemed illiberal to lay so
heaA'y a charge against a species of writing which has em-
ployed the pens of many persons of talents and taste, as
well as of those that have no pretensions la either; and un-
doubtedly it would be so, if the number of the former bore
any reasonable proportion to that of the latter : but where a
few names may be brought forward, who have expressed the
inspirations of nature, in propriety of language, innumerable
are they that have done outrage to truth and decorum, or else

^ have mingled with their talents,, qualities, which have only
served to render them more dangerous. How small is the
number of those that have been able or willing to descri-

. minate the exact boundaries, beyond which (however trifling

.97

the distance) wit degenerates into licentiousness ; reasori and
propriety into extravagance.

But enouji>'h has been said by me upon this subject. I
would wish, however, before I take my leave of it entirely,
to suggest what appears to be the most likely means of cor-
recting these evils. It is, to give our youth, of both sexes, a
virtuous and religious education ; to make truth the prime
object of all these pursuits ; to direct their views to reali'
ties instead of shadows ; to engage them in those studies
which have a tendency to enlarge and elevate the mind, and
strengthen and rectify the judgment as well as to rectify the
taste; which accustoms the mind to habits of industry and
labour, and gives in return a pleasure, far more exquisite
than that which is the meed of idleness or indolence.

In these times, pains have been taken by the learned, to
remove all difficulties out of tb^ "'^y of the learner, and to
prevent in future, the necessity on his pari, of any great ex-
ertions for the attainment of knowledge : but whilst it is to
be doubted, whether this mode of making learning easy will
eventually encrease the number of good scholars, some bene-
ficial consequences, may, it is hoped, follow from what en-
tirely does away the necessity of any extraordinary means,
in order to relax the mind after severe and intense applica-
tion— the excuse which is offered by many, who indulge
themselves in the h^e perusal of fictitious history.

— Nugse seria ducent in mala.
VOL. XII. O

ESSAY

ON THE

INFLUENCE OF HABIT,

CONSIDERED IN CONJUNCTION WITH

THE LOVE OF NOVELTY.'

Hgec placuit semel ; hsee decies repetita placebit.

A HE influence of habit and the love of novelty are principles
of so general, yet so opposite a nature, and intended to pro-
mote such different purposes, that if they were incompatible,
one half of the business of life would be left unaccom-
plished. Could we suppose a being under the government
of habit alone, his actions would be confined within the nar-
row circle that comprises the necessities of his nature; and
the preservation of his existence, by eating, drinking and
sleeping, would be almost his only achievement. On the

100

contrary, a being, destitute of every moving principle but a
love of novelty, would be active, energetic and enterprising,
but as. useless and unprofitable as the other. He would at-
tempt every thing, and accomplish nothing — for ever be
labouring, but labouring in vain. Of all our. common and
daily acts, how small is the number that could at all be per-
formed without many attempts and long practice. What
pains and exertion did it cost us to acquire the use of our
hmbs and the power of locomotion, the faculty of speech,
and the exercise of the simplest of our arts and attainments.
Had ourflature been endowed with the other affections
and governed by habit, yet destitute of the love of novelty,
we should merely enjoy a barren and grovelling existence,
unimproved by progressive change, unembellished by science,
and perhaps unexalted by virtue. On the contrary, if this
passion were added to the rest, and that our then busy curi-
ous and aspiring spirit were deprived of the discipline of
habit, our circumstances would be little .altered for the better;
for -science would be still unattainable, and virtue consist of
little more than a name — virtuous inclinations unproductive
of virtuous, conduct.

.-Wisely then have these two equal and opposite principles
been interwoven with the firj^t rudiments of our nature. They
unfold themselves with our earliest desires, they govern us
with the force of original laws through life, and reluctantly
ia death we are torn from that system of actions, affections,
and pleasures endeared to us by the one ; while the other

invites, us to a state of being in the last degree new, strange
and inscrutable.

This change, awful and mysterious as it is, differs but in
degree from MaMve have all experienced, but the recollec-
tion of which we are not permitted to retain. Perhaps the
infant, satisfied with the mere sense of existence, would, if
endued with the power of volition, be as unwilling to burst
from the confinement and darkness of the womb, though to
enjoy the delights of his destined residence, as the departing
^pirit'to enter upon that scene for which it is, perhaps, no
less suitably provided by nature. Each may cling* with
equal obstinacy to its chains and its dungeon ; ignorant of
its dormant faculties, and incapable of conjecturing its fu-
ture perceptions and enjoyments, submissive only to the in-
fluence of habit and averse to the desire of unexperienced
felicity.

When we say that these principles are interwoven with the
first rudiments of our nature, it is implied that like the other
affections they must be gradually developed ; and it would
be superfluous to remark that an action must be performed
more than once before it becomes a habit; or that we must
be acquainted with more objects than one before the love of
novelty can operate. The propensity is not less an original
law of our frame, because it must necessarily be dormant till
roused by appropriate occasions. It wil| therefore be curious
to trace the first movements of these principles in the mind.

rd2

It is obvious that the infant acquires habits before it is
affected by a desire of novelty. Its first act is a scream.
Its collapsed lungs are suddenly inflated by the atmosphere
of the new world it has entered ; the blood is forced into an-
other system of vessels hitherto unoccupied, but now be-
come necessary to its different state of existence. From
warmth it plunges into an ocean of cold, and from darkness
into an atmosphere of light, its amazement, if capable of
such an affection, must be lost in the universal pain it en-
dures. No wonder its -first act should be a cry of misery;
or that on every recurrence of pain, it should repeat the ex-
pression pain had first taught it. This is our earliest habit ;
■ixnd reason must in most of us have made some advance be-
fore we can overcome the propensity of lamenting by outcries
and tears, Avhatever anguish we suffer, whether corporeal or
mental.

Life is a mingled draught from the beginning ; and if the
first habit of the infant flows from a source of pain, the
second is derived from a more pleasurable origin. The for-
jmer .owes >ts birth to the sense of feeling, the latter to that
of smeH. It is agreed that the child is attracted to the breast
by the fragrance of tlie milk. The organ of taste soon shares
in the delight; and we can well conceive, though we cannot
recollect, the first felicity we enjoyed, when two dormant
.senses were at once awakened by the complicated percep-
tion of so delicate an odour, and delicious a taste. Uii-
jtaught and unpractised, the infant draws its nourishment

103

from the fountain of life; — soon and frequently it seeks a- re-
petition of its enjoyment — its diminutive frame requires an-
incessant supply, and it is not strange that so agreeable a
habit should be speedily established. It is only interrupted
by sleep, and continues till a different habit is induced by=
the use of other food ; nor should we omit to observe, in this
trivial circumstance, the superior strength of the influence of
habit over the love of novelty. The child long, prefers its
first and most natural diet to every other. Grosser food be-
comes more s-uitable to his encreasing strength, and in time
he would perhaps spontaneously reject the former. But it-
is with reluctance he first enters on his novel diet ; and its--
novelty has long ceased, and the habit of resorting to it long:
been confirmed before he is willing to relinquish altogether-
the enjoyment of his earliest luxury.

Perhaps the love of novelty first discovers itself in the
desire of changing the position of the limbs. During its
waking moments the infant is seldom still;. it stretches out
its hands and feet in so many directions, and so early after
birth) as to leave no doubt of its having acquired the prac-
tice of exercising the muscles to the utmost of its powers
even in the wombi Perhaps this affection is the great incen-
tive to its subsequent corporeal exertions, and becomes a
necessary counterpoise to the apprehensions that might other-
wise restrain them. In vain would the mother expect that a
desire to give her pleasure should animate the exertions of a
being, as yet so destitute of sympathy. It is the delight

104

arising from new situations which carries it througli its pro-
liressive improvements ; and incited by the love of novelty,
it at first learns to creep — then to stand erect, unsteadily
balancing its frame — next with assistance ventures to put
itself ill -motion; until grown more independent, it after-
ward confides its movements to its own tottering limbs, and
at length attains the power of walking with firmness, and
running with agility. But here other passions become his
assistants,. and as he advances in life, the pride of emula-
tion to equal his competitors aids his maturer exertions, and
the more ^active and athletic exercises follow each other in
quick succession. But from first to last, habit is the grand
auxiliary, and perfects the work begun by its precursor.

As the sense of smelling is the first to receive an agreeable
impression, it is perhaps the first to require novelty and va-
riety in its gratifications. The magazine of fragrant odours
is however soon exhausted; and it is only in our early days
that we delight to run from flower to flower. After we have
become familiar with all the sweets of the garden, we are
less anxious to seek a succession of agreeable scents, than to
avoid those that are otfensive. Mahomet is a singular in-
stance of preserving to the last a passion for perfumes. Two
sensual enjoyments were required by his nature, and there-
fore permitted by the religion he established. This delicate
gratification was one — and as it was necessary to his happi-
ness, perhaps in him it was accompanied, tlirough life, with

105

a love of variety — which differs but in a shade from the love'
of novelty.

The latter can, perhaps, be gratified but once by the same
object; but when it can be no longer considered as altoge-
ther new, it may still bear a comparison in point of novelty
with other objects of a similar nature ; jt may gain or lose
this quality, aS' we become more or less accustomed to it;
and if it were possible that we should sojourn so long upon
earth, as that nature could not offer, nor imagination suggest-
to us an object with which we were not familiar, the love of
novelty would then have degenerated into a love of variety. -

The sense of Taste enjoys a much larger scope than that of
Smell, and bestows on the principles we are considering, not
only a wider range, but much greater strength, on account
of its more intimate connexion with the appetites of hunger
and thirst.

As long as this sense is only acquainted with the flavour of
milk, however diversified in its mode of preparation, it allows
little room for the love of novelty and variety ; but sweet-
meals in various forms, and fruits of various relish, are pre-
sented to the inexperienced palate, and soon give birth to
new desires. Little is it thought that in the prudent or
improper gratification of this sense, begins the education of
the child. To indulge him in these things without restriction,
or to reward his good conduct by such paltry objects of am-
bition, and establish in their favour a distinction to which-
they are but little entitled beyond his ordinary food, is to

vol. XII. p

106

make him in infancy, what he may continue to old age, an
epicure and glutton. But more obvious absurdities are every
day in use, and we see the foundation laid for habitual ine-
briety, by vitiating the long-reluctant organ of taste with un-
diluted wines; or, as practised among the inferior classes of
Society, with still more powerful and deleterious potions.

The alarming progress of this most vile and ruinous of
habits, surprises the unreflecting and shocks the contempla-
tive mind. But when we witness its depredations, over-
whelming every barrier opposed to it by superiority of intel-
lect, elegance of taste, pride of learning and elevation of
genius, the most reflecting mind is most shocked and sur-
prised. All prior expectations give way before the almost
incredible, but too authentic, history of the unfortunate Der-
mody. Born, it is true, in an humble condition, yet quali-
fied by transcendant talents and uncommon acquirements to
arrive at the highest, we should perhaps have beheld without
wonderor envy his encreasing lustre, as a poet, philosopher,
or statesman. In our own times we have seen more than one
advanced to offices of dignity and emolument, by means of
qualifications, such as this ill-fated young man possessed, in
a much superior degree — great natural talents, extensive
knowledge of languages, and a thirst for general information
prompted and governed by a passion for the muses, to which
it was subservient. But see the destructive effects of one
pernicious habit. A worthless father infected his infant mind
with the mania of intemperance. It signifies little whether

107

he adulterated his taste and corrupted his appetite by admi-
nistering the poison ; or depraved his understanding by the
force of example. For such is the power of sympathy, that
the example of those we are taught by nature to respect,
operates irresistibly upon us, and their habits insensibly become
ours. While yet a schoolboy, intoxication had its charms foi
him ; and though familiar and delighted with the classics, and
enriched with a store of scholastic knowledge, these elegants
enjoyments were not sufficient lo exclude this degrading pas^-
sion : and the wit that was inspired by his genius, and invigo-
rated by his learning, was lavished on the meanest associates,
amidst the lowest debauchery. The habit was confirmed :■
strong in childhood, inveterate in youth, hopeless in manhood.
Yet in every stage those numerous and illustrious patrons,
whose protection his extraordinary genius had procured him,
endeavoured by advice, exhortation, and threats, to rescue him
from the perdition tovvard which he was hurrying. But in
vain : vice was added to vice, depravity to depravity, out-
rage to outrage ; until at length forsaken and abandoned by
his disappointed admirers and indignant friends, by turns an
importunate beggar and desponding recluse, now rioting in
vile and extravagant excesses, now sunk in abject contempt
and misery, at the early age of seven and twenty he died of
a lingering disease, the victim of one ungovernable habit,
that debased a noble and generous mind, a cultivated intel-
lect and exalted genius, those strongest evidences of our im-
mortal nature, to that grovelling level at which man ceases

1G8

to be honoured with the epithet of human, and ranks in
the estimation of society with the Brute.

Those senses which we have hitherto considered, are nearly
perfect from the beginning; but the organ of sight requires
long practice before it is fitted to perforin its office with
effect. It is first attracted by the light, next by ghttering
and bright-coloured objects, then by whatever is near it, and
at last is competent to judge of distances and magnitudes.

T\]e celebrated Berkeley in his " new Theory of Vision,"
which is commended by the wisest and ablest of our natural,
moral and political enquirers, as " one of the finest examples
of philosophical analysis that is to be found either in our own
or in any other language, leaves no doubt in the mind that
" the judgment we make of the distance of an object viewed
with both eyes is the result of experience; and on this
subject the following passages are deserving of particular at-
tention.

" The judgments we make of greatness, do, in like manner
as those of distance, depend on the disposition of the eye;
also on the figure, number and situation of objects, and
other circumstances that have been observed to attend great
or small tangible magnitudes.. Thus, for instance, the very
same quantity of visible extension, which in the figure of a
tower doth suggest the idea of great magnitude, shall in
the figure of a man suggest the idea of much smaller mag-
nitude. That this is owing to the experience we have bad
of the usual bigness of a tower or a man, no one I suppose

109

need be told." (Section 5?.) " Of visible points we see at
all times an equal number. It is every whit as great when
our view is contracted and bounded by near objects, as when
it is extended to larger and remoter. For it being impossible
that one minimum visibile should obscure or keep out of sight
more than one other, it is a plain consequence that when my
view is on all sides bounded by the walls of my study, I see
just as many visible points, as I could, in case that by the
removal of the study walls and all other obstructions, I had
a full prospect of the circumjacent fields, mountains, sea,
and firmament : for so long as I am shut up within the
walls, by their interposition every point of the external ob-
jects is covered from my view : but each point ihat is seen,
being able to cover or exclude from sight one only other
corresponding point, it follows that while my sight is con-
fined to those narrow walls, I see as many points or minima
visibilia as I should, were those walls away, by looking on
all the external objects, whose prospect is intercepted by
them. Whenever therefore we are said to have a greater
prospect at one time than another, this must be understood
with relation, not to the proper and immediate, but the
secondary and mediate objects of vision, which properly be-
long to the touch." (Section 82.)

Adam Smith, the elegant eulogist of Berkeley, elucidates
his theory in his Essay on the External Senses; and his ex-
quisite illustrations are well entitled to the applauses he be-
stows on his predecessor. He has added many improve-
ments of his own, to the merit of which he modesti}' dis-

110

claims any title ; but he gives us the following perspicuous
views in one of his most distinguished illustrations.

" It is because almost our whole attention is employed,
not upon the visible and representing, but upon the tangible
and represented objects, that in our imaginations we are apt
to ascribe to the former, a degree of magnitude which does
not belong to them, but which belongs altogether to the
latter. If you shut one eye, and hold immediately before
the other a small circle of plain glass of not more than half
an inch in diameter, you may see through that circle, the
most extensive prospect, lawns and woods, and arms of the
sea, and distant mountains. You are apt to imagine that
the landscape which is thus presented to you — that the vi-
sible picture which you thus see — is immensely great and ex-
tensive. The tangible objects which this picture represents
undoubtedly are so. But the visible picture which repre-
sents them can be no greater than the little visible circle,
through which you see it. If while you are looking through
this circle, you could conceive a fairy hand and a fairy
pencil, to come between your eye and the glass, that pencil
could delineate on that little glass the outline of all those ex-
tensive lawns and woods, and arms of the sea, and distant
mountains, in the full and exact dimensions with which they
are really seen by the eye." (Page 222.)

Adopting these views, we may conclude that previous to
all EXPERIENCE, a new-born child can only perceive at first
a circle of light of the dimensions of its pupil. It is per-
haps the first object (if it is entitled to that name) which it

Ill

beholds. It appears to it most probably, not on the retina,
Avhere the rays of light form its resemblance, and create a
sensation ; but where the circle actually exists, the aperture
of the ^ye. Afterward the walls and furniture and inmates
of its apartment, or the scenery and animation of an exten-
sive prospect, reduced to an almost imperceptible miniature,
occupy the same narrow field of view : one object indistin-
guishable, on account of its minuteness from another, but
forming altogether an intermingled mass of brilliant colours.
This variegated tissue is changed to one dull unvaried colour,
when an object approaches so near as to occupy the field of
view to the exclusion of other objects. Distance is as yet
imperceptible to the eye, and inconceivable by the mind.
The hand must be often extended and withdrawn, placed be-
fore the eye and on different parts of the body, contem-
plated in different positions and at different distances, before
the infant ascertains that the hand which it beholds is that
which a repetition of the sensations of feeling had previously
taught it to regard as part of its frame. This is the first step
in the complicated process by which it acquires the habit
of judging of distances : for the hand is the first measure it
uses, and it must be familiar with the instrument before it
can employ it with effect.

In time he discovers that the space where his hand moves
with freedom is destitute of objects ; and thus ascertains that
those which he beholds and cannot touch, lie beyond the ex-
tent of his arm. At this period it is probable that the field

112

of vision has encreased to the dimensions of a circle about
four or five inches in diameter, which enlarges to twenty or
thirty when he attends to the space 'vhich both of his arms
can describe or encompass, while all the objects in view ap-
pear painted within its area much larger than at first, much
smaller than afterward, and nearly within reach of the hand.
The eye of man is-fitted by the Wisdom of Nature to behold
commodiously at a single glance all objects that present
themselves within a cone whose sides form an angle of about
sixty degrees, and whose apex is the eye. This cone em-
braces but one-sixth of the horizon ; yet so quick is the mo-
tion of the eye, that we believe we see a hemisphere at once,
which we only take in by successive glances. For the con-
venience of beholding the greatest possible number of ob-
jects, it is established, either necessarily, or arbitrarily, that
the more remote an object is situated, the smaller it appears ;
otherwise a multitude of those which under our present cir-
cumstances we are capable of perceiving, would be con-
cealed from us by the intervention of that single object which
happened to be nearest. I'his is not the place to enquire by
what means this law is carried into effect. It is sufficient to
know that the nearer we suppose an object to be placed, the
smaller we judge it to be; and a castle of a hundred feet in
altitude at the horizon, will appear scarce an inch to the in-
fant that believes it to exist almost within reach of its hand.
Thus we can readily conceive that the more distant an object
really is, the smaller it must ever appear; and the nearer we

113

judge it to be, without actually' knowing the truth, the
smaller we must also suppose it. Of this diminutive size,
and bearing a just proportion to each other, as in a painting
accurately executed according to the rules of perspective, all
objects within the field of vision must probably appear to a
child at the period alluded to; no prominence observable;
but the whole consisting of a flat plane diversified by shades
and colours. Though it may be doubtful whether this pic-
.ture does not very early assume the form of a concave hemis-
phere ; similar in every respect, but in magnitude, to the
area comprehended by more perfect vision, but so confined as
to appear within tangible distance of the hand of the infant.
The visual powers command an equal extent in all direc-
tions ; and if, as a necessary consequence, the boundary of
vision presents to the adult an immense sphere, it must in
like manner present a sphere of reduced dimensions to the
infant, whose powers of vision likewise extend in all direc-
tions, but only, in his conception, to the distance of a few
inches.

Nearly at the distance which the infant has first learned to
assign to objects, is in all probability established the barrier
between distinct and indistinct vision : all things within it
appearing larger than they actually are, and encreasing in
size and indistinctness as they approach the eye; and all be-
yond it diminishing in size the farther they recede from it,
till they are also involved in obscurity and at length lost to
sight. A pin not an inch long, if brought close to the pupil,

VOL^XII. Q

114

appeftts to ettcrease in dimensions to six ; and if gradually
removed from distance to distance, reduces its size till it to-
tally vanishes, being seen in it? tru« dinaensions but once in
its progress which takes place at the barrier m question.

Beyond this boundary, tfee eye ©f the dnfant ha« not yet
learned to penetrate. It mflst previously become so imti-
mately acquainted with at least one particular object, that it
will recognise it at a moderate distance ; or, to speak more
consonantly with the sensations of the child, it ?must be able -fco
recognise it for the same object, although at one time it ap-
{)ears 'large, ated at another small. The first step in the ac-
iq'Sisition of this knowledge is the discovery, tiiat the visible
anfd tangible object is the same. One of the earliest occix-
pations of the infant is -to press with its hand the bosoiaaof
its mother. The prominency which is familiar to the touch,
can'not long be concealed from the eye. The gradual bright-
tiess and shading soon become signs of the figure of the ob-
ject; and the sight, under the tuition of the feeling, learns to
distinguish the round and the angular from the coloured flat-
ness peculiar to its own powers of perception. In his pro-
gress he insensibly becomes acquainted with the features of
his mother — rejoices to behold them softened into smiles —
and gives the first proof of his sympathy, that grand founda-
tion of our moral attributes, by a respondent smile. At rest
in his cradle he follows the countenance, now become so in-
teresting to him, with an attentive eye. It lessens as it re-
Cedes ; it enlarges as it advances ; and perhaps with the de-

115

fight of a philosopher at the discovery of a new truth, he for
the first time ascertains in those different situations, the iden-
tity of the object. But still he can have no notion of that
distance which occasions the change. He must himself be
borne from his mother, and again advanced toward her; he
must be conscious of having been in motion-^and possibly
that consciousness may not arise until his own powers of lo-
comotion have first been exerted— he must have acquired
some idea, however faint, of the space he has traversed, be-
fore he can. possess the most imperfect notion of distance i
and even that idea must have become habitual, long before
he recognises it as the cause of the diminution of objects.
But that recognition once made, and ripened by time into
HABIT, we forget appearances, and attend ©nly to the real,
©bjcct and the real distance.

A variety of objects, subjected to the same process, lend
their assistance in strengthening and perpetuating th^ habit ::
and with the exercise of the habit the power encreases of
judging correctly of distances. If the infant has traversed
no greater space than the length of hi§ chamber, he cannot
entertain a conception that the universe is more extensive ;
and whatever prospect its windows may command, the ma-
nifold objects between his eye and the horizon will appear at' y
the distance of fifteen or twenty feet from his ^ye^ if sueh
be the limit's of his knowk^ge of space. In proportion as -
-that knowledge advanees by means of exj^erience, his horizon
recedes — his circuit of vision ie«iaTg<>8, a^d objects -eflere&sa

116

their dimensions — known objects become a standard to judge
of unknown — and the human figure is perhaps the first and
the most useful which he employs to thnt end. A man on
the battlements of a distant tower, serves by comparison to
measure at once its magnitude and its distance — a full grown
oak, the elevation and extent of the hill on which it flourishes.
For a long period, the remotest mountains in the prospect
are regarded by the child as the boundary of the world. His
field of vision then extends to the terrestrial horizon.- A solid
vault of blue, studded with diminutive stars, appears to rest
on the flat earth as on a foundation ; and many a year has he
numbered before his encreasing knowledge countervails the
habit of his perceptions, and lends his imagination wings to
rise tlirough a yielding firmament, and discover through a
vista extending millions of miles, innumerable suns which he
had been taught to call stars, millions of miles in circum-
ference, and multiplied millions asunder : while Reason and
Fancy unite with Philosophy in peopling the invisible void
with systems of habitable orbs, as infinite in number as the
suns round which they revolve.

Thus instructed by the most confined and local of the
senses, the most unrestricted and expansive becomes per-
•fect. And a circle scarcely one-tenth of an inch in diameter,
. whose sphere of vision is at first not more extensive than that
circle, in the progress of time acquires, by force of habit,
the astonishing power of comprehending within its diminu-
tive sphere the stupendous universe.

117

The first steps of this process, naturally as they follow eacli
other, will never, if controverted, admit of demonstration ;
for we can scarcely hope, that in contradiction to those law^s
which have hitherto governed the infancy of man, his mind
will ever be endued with the faculty of recollecting every im-
pression it received from the first dawn of its existence ; and
until there is an instance of such an event, we may conjec-
ture, but we cannot know. Yet the concluding steps of the
process are so far advanced beyond the regions of mere pro-
bability, that their certainty in no small degree confirms the
credibility of those that precede them, not only by their reci-
procal harmony, but their united accordance with reason.
Still it must be confessed that we have facts within our know-
ledge, which seem to refute the doctrine altogether. In Che-
selden's invaluable case, referred to by almost every writer on
the subject of vision, the young man couched for cataract at
first perceived objects of a much larger size than they really
were; when according to the above principles, we would ra-
ther expect them to appear much smaller, and reduced to a
scale as diminutive as their picture on the retina. But we
must recollect that the patient was not an infant^— that he
was acquainted by the touch with the dimensions of objects —
and that the idea of space had long been familiar to him.
We must also recollect that like others affected with the same
species of blindness, he could distinguish light from dark-
ness, and even discern two or three colours. It is therefore
probable, that immediately after birth, he perceived a dirn

118

circle of light of the diameter of his pupil ; and that as he
enlarged his notion of space, the circle of light encreased its
dimensions ; but without extending to the degree of magni-
tude, during his blindness, which it attained after he acquired
the use of his sight. It is therefore natural to suppose, that
the first objects he perceived would appear to him at least
as large as to others, if there was no other peculiarity in his
sensations. But according to Cheselden he conceived that
all the objects he saw were as close to his eye, as those which
he touched, \vere to his hand. No wonder then that every
object should appear larger to him than to others, when
(subtending an equal superficies to both) he esteemed it to
be in contact with his eye, and they perceived it at its proper
distance.

These considerations perhaps afford a sufficient explana-
tion of the variance between the actual circumstances of this
young man, and those we would previously be inclined to
expect. He had a manifest advantage over the infant who
is totally destitute of all idea of space. He therefore ac-
^\iired more speedily the art of seeing. And upon the whole
it may be considered, that the peculiarities of his case yield
a strong confirmation of the doctrine, they seem on a super«
ficial view to subvert.

This topic has perhaps detained us too long 5 but as it fonns
JS<(><;iiiW«S and important a part of the history of our habits,
it was necessary to render it at lea'st intelligible, and 1 confess
I had iK)t the »rt of acconiplishing this in fewer words.

119

We have seem that no object would appear as it exists, and
that therefore visioai would be comparatively useless to U5, if
it were not for the habit of mentaHy converting visible into
tangible objects. The organ of sight \yould be far ever im-
perfect without this exercise of the mind. It was not requi-
site to consider what assistance is contributed to this effecrt
bj tlie love of novelt}^ ia investigating the mere improvement
»f the organ of vision ; though doubtless it operates in n^
small degree in promoting that intellectual exercise, so jae-
cessarj to its perfection. But it claims an important share
of our attention, when we direct our enquiries to |be affec-
tions of the mind, as moved and influenced by the objects of
sight.

We hav€ hitherto sketched a history of the combined in-
fluence of ihabit and the love of novelty, as they affect us
from their birth to their maturity, in relation to the objects
of those senses we have already discussed ; but it would be
tedious in every part of the subject to advert to minutiae that
cannot have escaped the most heedless observer. The eager-
ness with which infants relinquish one glittering object for an-
other more novel, must have forced itself on every one's notice.
Nor are those circumstances less obvious, which evince the
full growth of this passion in the mind ; and we cannot look
back without strong feelings of interest, to the first instance
of our absolute submission to its powerful influence. There
is no one that does not cherish the recollection of the solici-
tude he felt, in expectation of the first change of scene he

120

enjoyed. With what ardour does the young rustic desire to
visit the neighbouring town, of which he has heard such ex-
aggerated tales ; and how much does the gratification of his
curiosity add to its vigour. The distant capital invites him
to a feast still more splendid ; and if his appetite is not
palled by the banquet, this impulse may render it still more
insatiable after novelty. On the other hand the child bred
up in cities, and breathing their unwholesome atmosphere,
feels as if he were imprisoned in an uncongenial element,
and secluded from enjoyments for which he was constituted
by nature. He longs to breathe in freedom the pure air of
the country. His imagination carries him to every green and"
luxuriant spot in the prospect, of which, through interposing
roofs and towers, he can obtain a glimpse ; and he entertains
the ambition of climbing the mountains which bound his hori-
zon, from whose summit he fancies he shall behold a fathom-
less abyss, or a dreary ocean, constituting the last verge of na-
ture. The love of novelty thus finds a firmer footing in the
mind. Indulgence strengthens this passion, as it strengthens
every other. If it ripens into habit, it becomes necessary
to the existence with which it is interwoven. Excursion
after excursion, scene after scene, at once gratify the mindi,
and stimulate it to fresh gratifications. And by this process,
a basis is laid for an insatiable thirst of novelty, such as led
Park over the terrible desarts, or through the more terrible
population, of Africa; or instigated Columbus to the glory of

121

contending with the unknown tempests of the desolate At-
lantic then deemed unnavigable.

This affection, with Sensibility for its partner, delights to
traverse those regions consecrated by the memory of illus-
trious tiationSj which have long since perished from the
earth ; or the deeds of magnanimous individuals, who by
their example, as with an inheritance have enriched posterity
for ever. With similar and equal interest we dwell upon the
reliques of the days of our forefathers — their grand and
gloomy castles, convenient only for defence, awaken all the
sympathy our nature still retains for the boisterous and he-
roic age of chivalry. Taste is generated by objects like
these, and the sentiments they inspire. A Burke or an
Alison leads us through the gardens and wildernesses of na-
ture^— and whether we trace some inviting stream, through
cultivated meadows and wooded dells, to the barren moun-
tains that form its cradle ; or hang over its frightful cataracts
from a rock seemingly consolidated with the foundations of
the earth — whether we revel in the smiles or shrink aghast at
the fbowns of nature — we every where confess the footsteps
of God. The sources of beauty and sublimity are opened
to us J and thenceforth an inexhaustible fountain of enjoy*
nient flows beneath olir feet.

Such a shai-e has the Lo\?e of Novelty in enhancing the
value of the objects of sight. .Nor is this all — associated
with Observation and Sagacity, it explores new fields of know-*
ledge, and opens new springs of felicity, not less valuable

VOL. XII. It

122

to the intellect, than those already mentioned, to the heart.
"We walk with the ingenious and discerning Werner, and the
profound and speculative liutton, amidst rocks of adaman-
tine hardness, whose various strata resemble the gradual and
successive deposit of the waters; and without a blind un-
qualified and implicit adherence to either of these philoso-
phers, we acknowledge but doubtingly that a force less than
of fire could scarcely have produced the change. The dis-
integration of these rocks seems to supply the sandy bed of
the neighbouring torrent; and if we pursue its course to the
sea, we learn that " the capacious bed of waters" owes its

■ formation to the same materials. It appears as if the lofty
mountains and solid plains were carried b}' a slow but un-
ceasing progress into the abyss of the ocean ; and we look
round us, with inquisitive eyes, to discover if the dry land
we inhabit has ever been subjected to the same astonishing
revolution. We pursue the novelties that invite us; ahd

- fancy that we are taught in every page of the volume of
nature, that twice this earth was in the bosom of the waters,
and as often heaved above them by the force of subter-
ranean fires, which liquefied or baked it into the manifold
forms that diversify its surface. We shrink from so incre-
dible a creed, but rocks of enormous magnitude excite our
.attention ; and the vertical strata of their masses, which seem
to have been once horizontal, compel us to acknowledge
that the power which heaved them upright must have been
adequate to events the most tremendous ; and reluctantly we

12S

admit the conviction, that wherever we tread, it is on the
wrecks of former worlds.

Thus we see how the profoundest enquiries become food
for the appetite of novelty. It cannot be satiated, any more
than the sense of vision, by terrestrial prospects. It expa-
tiates at large in the immensity of the heavens. It weighs
and measures the planets, their distance, and velocity ; and
ascertains with Newton, the laws that speed, yet confine
them in their orbits. It adds new powers to the eye by the
telescope, and opens to us deeper and deeper profundities of
space. We discover with Herschel, that the nebulous bright-
ness of the milky-way consists of multitudes of stars thickly
sown in stratum over stratum ; and which seem more closely to
approach each other in proportion to their remoteness from us
— that the stars of our firmament, however distant from each
other, are but a part of the one congeries — that our sun is an
individual among them, and that those in his vicinage naturally
appear to our eyes the farthest asunder. Prodigious contem-
plation ! — yet how trivial to that which succeeds. In various
parts of the heavens, and still more distant than the most
' distant star of the galaxy, other nebulous spots appear. We
look through the telescope, and stars become visible as nu-
merous as those which heretofore constituted to us the uni-
verse. At the same time a profounder space is unfolded, and
other nebulae whose stars still remain undistino-uishable, are
revealed to view. Two thousand five hundred, has Herschel
numbered, of these Universes ; for Universes we must call

124

them in spite of, the solecism. Muman language is alike in-
competent to express the Creation and the Creator.

Sublime and ineffable as are the sentiments which arise
from these amaaing contemplations, they but inflam^e the lust
of knowledge. System after sysfem bursts with increasing
grandeur on the indefatigable mind. We reason — we com-
pare^-we generalise — we simplify. Science fixes her firm '
foot on the orb of the sun^ and sees, around her, circumvolv-
ing planets, satellites, and comets. Their motion more rapid
beyond comparison than the whirlwind is to the eye imper-
ceptible at the distance even of the nighest. iiow then
could we hope to discern the motion of the stars hitherto
supposed to be fixed ? Yet Ilalley suspected and Herschel
has discovered that they actually move, and almost ascer-
tained even the direction of their course. * But thousands
of yea¥S must elapse before such a general change can occur
as to alter materially to our senses their relative positions.
Some nebula infinitrlj? remote, apd whose motion must be
less perceptible in proportion to its distance, may offer itself
as an abject suffielently fixed for measuring the movement of
i\\e nearer heavens. But what is the length of human life —
the duration of nations — the existence of the earth itself, to
accomplish such a task ? At those incalculable distances, it
is possible that many millions of miles, nay many millions of
diametets eveu of the solar system, may not occupy to our

* See Hersclicl's Paj;ers on the Motion of the Sun, and Solar System in the Transac-
tions of the Royal Society, for the years 1783 and 1805. ,

i2d

e_ye a spuce equal to the hurulredtli part of an inch ; and
though that mighty- longitude were traversed by the heavenly
bodies with the velocity of light — to us, though observed for
ages, or perhaps for ever, the amazing tale of their travels
might still remain undivulged.

But the acquisition of facts only prompts us to the acqui-
sition of facts yet unknown. The love of novelty ripens into
an appetite for knowledge ; and we hunger and thirst to riot
without stint in the feast of reason, among new objects, new
facts, new truths, in endless variety. And scarcely have we
learned that the magnitude of our sun may surpass that of
all the heavenly bodies united, which roll around him a*
their centre, and that he and his attendant worlds are ad-
vancing together through space, than our imagination trans-
ports us into the centre of all nature : and there it frames a
mighty orb, equal iu mass to the thousands of universes that|
are attracted by its gravity, and rdll in majestic splendour
around this heaven of heavens — " this throne itself of God."

Magniticent as this scheme may appear, it must still fall
short of the works of the Creator. What He has achieved^
i.t is not for nx;in ii\ the utmost stretcl]; of his imagination to
conceive.

In the several instances to which we have had occasion to
recur, we. find that the love of novelty becomes gradually-
exalted into a much nobler passion. Nor in any of them
can we discover that this desire exists without a preconceived

1S6

object. The victim of lassitude and ennui maj' indeed pant
after novelty for its own sake; but he is a singular instance.
The infant does not throw away his rattle until some other
attraction presents itself; the boy does not long for a glimpse
of the metropolis until he has heard of its splendours. It is
the same in manhood. Johnson did not seek the Hebrides
until he had warmed his imagination with the view of primi-
tive and uncultivated society which he expected to enjoy
there. The fancy of Columbus dwelt only on a new track
through the ocean, when he discovered a new world. And
the galaxy and nebula were already in the eye of Hcrschel
before he ascertained them to be clusters of stars^ and found
a new universe in every assemblage.

Every organ of sense rs long under the tuition of habit,
and by its means attains no small degree of perfection, before
the mind is affected by a desire of novelty with respect to the
objects of that particular sense.

Hearing, for example, must long be exercised, before it
arrives at the power of distinguishing the variety of noises,
that first excite its attention, and the multiplicity of sounds
conveyed in the simplest air of music, or the narrowest com-
pass of language. Pleasing sounds, by being new, are ren-
dered more pleasing; but until the ear is habitually ac-
quainted with some arrangement of sounds, it can scarcely
be subservient to the love of novelty; because the imagina-
tion cannot form a preconception of a simple sound to which
the mind is a stranger; and we have seen that without some

127

preconception of the object, this affection does not arise-
But when the ear becon)es familiar with different arrange-
ments of sound, the imagination can readily conceive the
formation of other arrangements, and naturally gives birth to
a desire for new harmonies in music, new expressions of lan-
guage, and at length pants after new efforts of eloquence,
new flights of the muse, and all that science can perform by
the power of diction.

Vast as is the empire of the eye, the dominion of the ear
is far more extensive; and though the former is more useful
to man as an animal, the other is more necessary to him as a
reasonable creature. It is the great inlet of his knowledge —
the gate which opens to him the intellect of others, throws
down the barriers which would confine his mind to the scanty
produce of its own conceptions, and gives it a passage to the
collective understanding of mankind. Without it, language
could never have been invented — without language, general
ideas could have no existence — and without general ideas,
where Avould be that knowledge which stamps on maa his
exalted character of a reasonable being?

No wonder then that this refined and delicate organ should
be slow in arriving at perfection. To distinguish accurately
every vibration of air, from an infinite number of other vi-
brations, whose impulse conveys to the auditory nerves all
the involutions of sound employed in music or language,
seems a power more than miraculous. It is according to the
course of nature, and we pass it by without consideration —

it ma}' be said, without notice — yet in the records of tliosft
marvels which have contradicted that course, is there one
more astonishing than this which floats with the stream?
How exquisite must be the construction of the organ, how
accurate its perceptions, how attentive the mind, how inces-
sant the habit of observing and discriminating, to endue this
wonderful faculty with all its perfection. And during the
process, how ardent must be that love of novelty which pro-
motes those exertions, how early its birth, how prodigious its
growth, when it rushes unconscious from the sound to the
sense, from the diction to the subject, from detail to reason-
ing, and as it advances in its progress, becomes first a love of
knowledge, and then a love of truth, the acme of its cha-
racter.

It is strange to reflect that the foundation from which has
arisen the proudest superstructure of human attainments,
may have been an idle fairy tale or absurd romance ! It is
not the knowledge we receive by compulsion, in schools and
colleges, that takes the fastest hold of the mind ; but that
■which we- acquire voluntarily, and pursue with avidity. In-
fant curiosity awakened by a Persian or Arabian tale, the
less marvellous stories of Monsieur Berquin and Madame
Genlis, or the invaluable and more fascinating compositions
of Miss Edgeworth, to whom society will perhaps be in-
debted for the virtues of future generations, soon demands
more solid nourishment. Fiction and fancy give place to
truth and reason. The unrestricted intellect traverses \yith

129

rapfd strides the frequented regions of knowledge — makes
excursions of its own in the unfrequented ; and leaves far
behind the limited endeavours of the trammelled mind. A
regular plan of education is no doubt indispensable ; but the
boy greedy of intellectual pleasure will overleap its fences ;
while the pedantry that would confine him within them, de-
feats its own views. Require of him his allotted task ; but
allow him beside, his choice of reading, whether solid of
light, and he will derive advantage from both. Chain him
to his galley, and he will be but a galley-slave — his exertions
as languid, his progress as circumscribed, his disgust as inve-
terate. It is in your power to choose the first book that is
put into his hands — if it is suited to his age, and adequate
to captivate his attention, you may leave him in a great
measure to himself — advise him when he asks for advice ;
but it is scarcely necessary to obtrude it when he does not
solicit it. The amusing tale will be followed by the instruc-
tive history — science will tread on the heels of science — ht
will find his way from volume to volume with little need of a
guide — all he wants is books and instruments — and these it
is your business to supply as he demands them, if you would
not impede him in his road to universal knowledge. The
habit of study, and the passion of grasping at truths yet un-
known to himself or to others, will be sutficient incentives
to his progress, and supports of his toils.

As a necessary companion and minister to the sense of
hearing, and equally a medium of communication between

VOL. XII. s

13b

reasonable beings, the faculty of speech was bestowed on
man; and it deserves the highest cultivation of which it is
susceptible. The power of deUvering the thouglits in easy
unaffected perspicuous animated language, is in every con-
dition of life a pleasing accomplishment ; but in the higher
ranks and more public avocations of society, it is an indis-
pensable requisite. In these free countries where popular
discussions have such mighty sway, this popular talent is of
the utmost moment; and its acquisition is the surest means
of attaining the highest summit of political ambition. But
it cannot be acquired without the aid of habit, early and
unremitting. At the outset of life we imagine that nothing
more is necessary to the expression of our thoughts, than to
possess a valuable and abundant store. Accordingly we shut
ourselves up in our studies — we devote ourselves to our
books — we heap fact upon fact, and truth upon truth, and
the indefatigable student at length becomes a magazine of
science. Then triumphing in his acquisitions he enters into
society ; and when the wished for opportunity occurs for the
display of his learning, he finds to his astonishment that he
wants the only means to give it utterance — words. He
opens his ears and learns to his mortification, that the shal-
lowest talker, who deals only in common-place, exceeds him
in the art of conversation and the powers of amusing — that
the stranger to books who owes all his information to acci-^
dental intercourse with the learned, can shine with more
lustre than himself, even in the field of hterature; and too

131

late he acknowledges, that the labours of his life have been
unavailing, since he cannot impart their result; and that
science and philosophy are but useless appendages, without
the habit of conversing, and the talent of expressing our
thoughts.

It is true that writing affords the unconversable student a
ready instrument of developing his opinions, whose sphere
of action and influence is much more extensive. But habit
is as necessary to the perfection of this art as of the former.
The practice of composing should be early encouraged among
those to whom it can be useful ; and there are few persons
above the inferior classes of society, to whom it may not be
of the most eminent service. The multitude will derive suf-
ficient advantage from the mere mechanical use of the pen ;
and the lowest individual in the state should not be left in
ignorance of the art. This would be a benefit more to be
desired than expected, were it not that the simple but in-
comparable inventions of Lancaster promise to disseminate
the invaluable blessings of education among ever}' rank in
societ}', before another generation passes away. But the
more exalted skill of elegant composition should not be ne-
glected, or left to chance among the superior classes. It were
wise to afford to every boy an opportunity of discovering the
extent of his capacity for this accomplishment ; and if the
result be favourable, the ambition to excel, and the practice
which generates excellence, will spontaneously follow. In
our early years the splendid efforts of the muse are more snitj^d

132

to our taste, and more evident to our understandino; than the
simpler beauties of prose — the young are prone to imitate
what most they admire — and our infant genius, like the ge-
nius of infant society, effuses itself in poetry. It is an art
to which we are under much higher obligations than is com-,
nionly supposed ; and a little reflection will convince us, that
we owe to some ambitious poet of remote antiquity, the in-
vention of alphabetical writing. Facts, opinions, and laws,
he might have promulged, by means of hieroglyphics ; but
he could not record his verses, till he had discovered the
power of registering the harmonious and evanescent arrange-
ment of sounds.

Whether it is politic to encourage a poetical taste, is how-
ever to be questioned. It seduces the unfortunate possessor
from his proper business — the employment, from whose pro-
fits he is to derive his sustenance.- — It diverts his industry
into a channel that enriches his mind, but where worldly
wealth seldom flows. It inspires him with that contempt for
gold, which perhaps may console him under the privation,
of which it is eminently the cause. It promotes a cultiva-
tion of the understanding, a melioration of the disposition,
a poignancy of feeling, an ardour of virtuous sentiment, and
a romantic nobleness of heart — in vulgar times it accom-
plishes him for the days of chivalry^ — and it will not be dif-
ficult for common understandings to decide, how far that
taste is to be coveted, which unfits a man for the present
state of things, even though it may qualify him for a better.

133

la our investigation of tlie influence of habit and the !ove
of novelty, as they operate in the improvement of the organs
of sense, and affect the mind in its relation lo sensible ob-
jects, we cannot overlook their alternate operation, and the
quick advances toward perfection, which are the conse-
quence of this arrangement. Every act and object is fresh
and new to the infant; and it is satiated with novelty before
the desire can arise. 1'he very performance of an act creates
an inclination to repeat it; and the influence of habit is the
first to affect us. It grows stronger with every repetition,
and does not require any support from novelty, where there
is little or no exercise of the will ; as for instance, in imbib-
ing an awkwardness of manner; practising peculiar and un-
meaning gesticulations, or, resorting to those preposterous,
but innocent enjoyments, the most common of which is the
use of that nauseous weed, . which is so providentially harm-
less to the individual, and productive to the state. These
habits require no charm of novelty to render them perma-
nent; for in time they become^s independent of the will, as
the return of hunger at the accustomed hour, the process of
digestion, or the pulsation of the arteries.

But where the will exercises a control, the habit grows
stronger only so long as it preserves any character of novelty.
When an object or action is for the first time presented, those
which were familiar lose in some degree their attractions, and
the mind devotes itself with ardour to the new. But when
the delicate essence of novelty is totally dissipated, all the

134

^ I'elish of attraction evaporates vvith it. We may however

remark that habit is sooner deprived of its influence, and
the intercurrence of novelt}-- longer required to engage our
attention, when we are passive, than when Ave are active.
Even the most exquisite singers and facetious of story-tellers
are seldom sensible of the tedium of repeating the same

t', songs, and recapitulating the same stories, so soon as the po-

litest of their auditors ; whose amenity is sometimes subjected
to no trifling test of endurance, if the air be not varied by
some lively touches of Pathos, or the anecdote by some unex-
pected effusion of humour: or in fine, unless some additional
auditor is present ; when a new sense of sympathy with the in-
terest he feels, may postpone for the time the impatience of

\ lassitude. Old Homer's rule of the twice-told tale has never

' been reversed ; nor do the annals of song afford an excep-

tion ; unless it is, perhaps, to be found in such ever-varying
' and fascinating modulations as are disclosed in the notes of

" Lungi dal caro bene," and Viola's still more affecting ap-
peal to the heart of Orsino, " She never told her love." * These
have the privilege, if it is possessed by music, of feasting " the
ravished ear" to excess, but never to satiety.

The influence of habit is commonly exercised in matters
of a general nature, while the love of novelty deals in par-
ticulars. A taste for reading may become an indispensable
habit : we may even with pleasure confine our studies to one

* The former by Sarti, the ktter by Haydn.

^»

135

science, but can seldom restrict them to one book. The
same work does not often invite to a second perusal; at least
until the subject is partially forgotten, and therefore in some
degree new. We may acquire an habitual necessity of fre-
quenting the theatre ; but the same dramatic representation
will afford but a meagre amusement, unless its attractions be
revived by a change of performers, or some similar novelty.
Yet in our most constant and permanent habits, the
simplest variation suffices to render them agreeable. A person
will pace the same streets or travel the same road, day after day
and year after year, without the slightest disgust ; scarcely
adverting to the objects which he has so often beheld, and
finding perhaps all the novelty that enlivens his way, in his
own meditations. Or even if " he whistles as he goes, for
want of thought," the scenes he has traversed a thousand
times, may every time display a thousand minute varieties
that exclude the approach of chagrin and ennui. The same
landscape is not the same, in sunshine, and in twilight — when
the heavens are blue and serene, or enveloped in a curtain
of clouds — in a calm when the aspen scarce moves, and in a
breeze which sways with its breath the fields and the forests.

Thus the perpetual recurrence of novelty is in some degree
necessary to preserve the existence of such of the habits as
have not renounced the control of the will ; even those which
Lave been of the longest continuance. And from this curious
circumstance we learn how closely these principles of action

136

are united, and the difficulty of separating the consideration
of their effects.

Can this operation of novelty be a law of our nature, in-
terwoven with our frame ; or has the habit of thus being af-
fected, arisen from the pleasure we derived from every ob-
ject, when the world was new to us, and the consequent
stimulation to similar fenjoyments ?

Be this as it may, the dominion of habit is not superficial.
Its sway can be traced in the depths of our constitution ;
and its power over the functions of the frame would lead us
to regard it as a primitive law of our nature.

Labour of body' and exertion of mind, those great pro-
moters of sleep, no longer produce their effects on a patient
familiar with laudanum. The drops must be administered
before re&;t can be hoped for. The epicure, accustomed to
spicy condinients with his food, cannot digest it without
them ; and the stimuli of the natural sepretions, cease to be
stimuli, to intestines enervated by the use of cathartics.

If these internal actions so little within the dominion of
the will, are still subjected to the government of Habit, we
need not be surprised that this law of our constitution should
predominate in our voluntary actions. Every muscle in the
frame performs its office with ease, or difficulty, according as
it has been exercised ; and dexterity, grace and skill are the
fruits of repeated practice. The smith toils throughout the
day with a sledge, which a ploughman, as robust, could not
wield for an hour. A skUful rider will " turn and wind a

,137

fiery pegasus" that a novice in horsemanship dares not ven-
ture to mount. The seaman will chmb unconcernedly to a
height, where landsmen cannot see him without terror; and
confiding in the habitual strength of his hands, suspend him-
self over the waves into which one less practised would drop
in despair. -

It is this effect of habit, in improving manual operations,
that has rendered the division of labour of so much import-
ance to a commercial country. But the wealth it creates, is
not altogether a compensation for the expenditure of health,
activity, and intellect, that are given in exchange. Low must
be his bodily strength, and mean his understanding, who is
destitute of all thought or employment, but cutting off" iuches^
of wire or sharpening them into points. In the northern
parts of Ireland a different system exists — there is there a
population not to be exceeded for intelligence in any part of
the globe ; and this blessing is chiefly to be ascribed to the
prevalence of exercising two different trades, the one an
active, the other a sedentary occupation. The weaver, it is
true, might be a much better weaver, if he confined liis at-
tention to the shuttle, and relinquished the spade and the
plough ; and the farmer excel as a farmer, if he never sat
down to the loom. But the individual is stronger and
healthier, more intelligent and happy ; and if the country
has less wealth, it is more nobly enriched in the vigour, in-
tellect and energy of a people who are competent and am-
bitious to be her defenders.

VOL. XII. T

138 -

In the more learned and illustrious avocations of life, it iy
only industry and talents that can bestow celebrity. But
knowledge the most profound, and genius the most exalted,
would be useless to the possessor on the most critical occa-
sions, were it not for the power of habit. It is by constantly
calling them into exercise, that they become as ready instru-
ments in his hand, as a tool in the mechanic s. The expe-
rienced physician has scarcely ascertained the symptoms,
until the hidden seat of the disease discovers itself to his
sagacity, and his judgment as instantly decides on the ap-
propriate remedy. The legal practitioner as speedily deve-
lopes the rights of contending parties, and evolves the in-
tricate avenue to justice — with confidence and fluency he
stigmatises the conduct of one individual, and justifies that of
another — and with the same astuteness and presence of mind,
eviscerates truth from an evasive witness ; or replies to the
arguments, and retorts on the wit, of a dextrous adversary.
The parliamentary orator is no less indebted to habit, for the
skill with which he brands his opponents without breach of
decorum ; — the pertinacity of hollow argument, with which
he ppholds the cause of corruption ; or the lightening of
eloquence, with whose flashes he confounds its abettors.

What a variety of habits is necessary to form the com-
mander of armies. To discern at a glance the strong and
weak points of a country — to calculate the sum of its re-
sources— to combine extensive and even I'emote operations —
to move in all its involutions and dependencies the vast ma-

139

chine of battle, — to exercise invincible patience- -infallible
foresight — prompt and unerring decision — vigilant and unre-
mitting presence of mind — rapid and overwhelming activity,
— to perceive the opportunity of attack — the means of re-
treat— the moment of victory. To be careless of ease — in-
sensible to danger — enamoured of heroism — wedded to glory.
These are not virtues to be obtained by occasional or uncer-
tain exertion : but like all other virtues, they cannot be con-
fided in, until they are practised as if by instinct ; and inter-
laced with the very fibres of the constitution, by the power
of habit. Let us turn our eyes on the two arbiters of the
world — with what gigantic strides have their minds advanced
intheir tremendous science, from the bridge of Lodi to the
field of Mojaysk ; from the modest dawning of Assye, to the
noontide splendour of the Arapiles. *

It is not among ministers or statesmen I would seek for an
illustration of the advantages that flow from the power of
habit. The routine of office — the wiles of diplomacy — and

* The language of Metaplior is exhausted in following the achievements of Lord
Wellington. The glories of Vittoria have since been added to his fame, " Like a new
morning risen on mid-day." — Another interval has elapsed — the days of Roncevalles ! St.
Jean De Luz ! Bayonne! Orthes! Toulouse! have followed each other in rapid succes-
sion— we can but name them and be silent. — At the time of writing this essay there were
two names ivlone of moment in tiie world — Napoleon and AVellington. What changes
have a few short months produced — how many heroes have arisen to Europe— how many
entitled to rank as her arbiters. Yet he who first inspired their triumphant exertions
still maintains his proud pre-eminence ; while of his mighty competitor, we are reduced
to exclaim, like Ossian, at the grave of the warrior, " With three strides all thy pos»
sessions are compassed, Oh thou that wast so great before !"

140

tiie polished arts of protraction and deception may derive
their most striking effect from long and studied exercise ; but
a minister may possess all these virtues in perfection, yet fail
of being esteemed a blessing to his country. His opinions
are of more consequence than his operative skill ; and are
more likely to affect the permanent interests of society. But
the influence of habit on opinion has seldom a favourable
tendency. Prejudices do not often lean to the side of reason,
truth or justice — and the body of a Fakir is not more cramp-
ed by his favourite posture, than is the mind by a weak and
predominant tenet.

It is a melancholy amusement to reflect on the prodigious
absurdities in politics and religion, which in all ages of the
world have been adopted by the mass of mankind, and, in
some countries, with the full acquiescence of the select and
the studious. Indeed the ignorant would perhaps always con-
tent themselves with the suggestions of common sense ; but
these are too often forgotten in the lucubrations of the learned.
Excessive refinements of reasoning have introduced many a
doctrine irreconcileable with common s^nse; and the igno-
rant bow with deference to the tuition of the learned, if their
mind happens to be unoccupied. But the opinions which
they once imbibe from their teachers, they hold more tena-
ciously, in proportion as they are absurd. They acquire a
habit of regarding them as sacred ; and the habit grows older
and stronger, and at length bids defiance to the united powers

141

of reason ami common sense. Why should we exclaim
against the opinions of the vulgar — the grossest they enter-
tain, were perhaps a few centuries back, engendered by the
most learned and eminent of the day.

But it is not the vulgar alone that are slaves of this habit.
Men of high rank, and some education, submit with the
multitude to the shackles of prejudice; and the more impor-
tant the question and the deeper it concerns us, the less are
we disposed to investigate its merits, or examine the opinions
we harbour on the subject. It is true, a spirit of enquiry is
universally spreading; and its progress is proportioned to the
process it adopts. Human reason, after an excursion of
thousands of years, has been brought back to common sense.
This has been effected, in the science of the material world,
by Bacon — and under the guidance of his precepts, by Reid,
in the immaterial. Knowledge is encreasing in every class of
society ; and^ flows from innumerable sources, fertilising
every corner of every land. It has been truly remarked, that
when sovereigns become philosophers, or philosophers sove-
reigns, the people will then be happily governed. But if
the people become philosophers, their governors must of ne-
cessity become philosophers also. When the whole mass of
society was buried in ignorance, a trivial superiority in know-
ledge sufficed to direct or control it. But those times are
passed away ; and as science encreases (and God seems to
have provided that henceforth it shall for ever encrease) the
governors must at least keep pace with the governed. The

142

mists of prejudice will spontaneously disperse before the ra-
diance of knowledge — politics will become the science of
creating and perpetuating the happiness of nations — Chris-
tianity will every where reassume the pure robe of her Author,
and unite all her children in the bonds of his charity. The
powers of the intellect will augment with the habits of exer-
tion ; and the supremacy of virtue extend with the practice
of goodness. It may be a weak, but it is an innocent en-
thusiasm, that anticipates that distant day, when man, hav-
ing gradually ennobled his nature, and ripened the perfection
of which he seems susceptible, shall triumph over every
moral evil ; when enmity shall cease between factions and
states ; and the empire of virtue, peace, and happiness, no
longer be visionary.

The generality of men are averse to the adoption of new
tenets ; and perhaps this constitution of our nature may an-
swer the wisest purposes. For it is better that we should be
tenacious even of a weak or absurd notion than flippant in
relinquishing just and long established opinions — the fruit
of industrious examination, and conscientious reflection —
through the simple gratification of the love of novelty. But
when this affection is employed in the pursuit of knowledge;
and mature investigation has discovered a truth subversive
of a doctrine to which long habit has attached us ; it is then
we should overcome this propensity of our nature ; nor suffer
a disposition which was intended for the support of truth
and virtue, to degenerate into an auxiliary of folly and false-
hood.

143

But if the simple love of novelty has little place in the
regulation of our opinions, much less does it sway us in the
exercise of our moral capacity. Virtue is never adopted for
the sake of any novel sensation which may attend it. Its
strength, its continuance, its very existence, depends on
habit. Novelty bestows no beauty on the attractions of
goodness — the longer we are acquainted with them, the
more we feel their power. The first act of virtue may in-
deed be accompanied with emotions, never afterward expe-
rienced. But her dominion is not complete, until her pre-
cepts are obeyed spontaneously and without a struggle. —
Tumultuous feelings make room for a complacency border-
ing on deliglit, which encreases with each successive act of
virtue, and if elevated to its highest degree would be per-
haps supreme felicity.

Vice, no less than virtue, is the child of habit. Within
her domains, it is true, she may be intoxicated by the fasci-
nations of novelty ; but the superior novelty of virtue has no
talisman to dissolve the enchantments of habit. The first
act of vice is preceded by apprehension, and attended by
remorse — repeated acts may blunt these stings of consci-
ence; but the mind at last consigns itself to a hopeless state
of depravity and Avretchedness — a struggle may yet retrieve
its liberty : but the same power, the power of habit, which
renders virtue superior to the whispers of seduction, renders
vice as insensible to the clamours of duty, and extinguishes
every capacity in man, but such as fits him for irretrievable
, misery.

144

Conscious of this indissoluble law of our constitution, how
anxiously should we direct its operation to our final advan-
. tage. Endued as we are with appetites and passions, which
within a certain compass are necessary to the preservation of
the individual, the propagation of the species, and the hap-
piness of society, but when let loose and abandoned to the
violence of their career, are as destructive in their fury, as
they are beneficent under the restraints of conscience and
reason — so endued — with what solicitude should we acquire
the habit of confining, within their appointed limits, these
dubious directors, which waft us round the circle of virtuous
enjoyment, or hurry us into the regions of turpitude and
misery, the operant causes of much natural good — the in-
disputable authors of all moral evil.

Our infancy is assailed by a host of rebellious passions,
which Avill accompany us through life, if not early subdued,
and constantly restrained, by force of habit. That sensibility
to pain, which indicates itself by tears and cries, and is neces-
sary to the preservation of so tender a creature, soon be-
comes confirmed peevishness, petulance and rancour. That
passion, which was intended in the progress of life to pro-
mote our welfare by steadiness and perseverance in our pur-
suits and labours, may in its very outset deviate into stub-
bornness and obstinacy. That emulation, which might one
day raise us above our fellows, may be transformed at its
birth into a pitiful or malignant envy. That pride, which has
been provided to dignify the lofty nature of man, may sink
into silly vanity, or swell into overweening arrogance. And

that provident apprehension of insurmountable danger, which
by rendering us circumspect, and prudent is necessary to the
prest'i vation of our frail existence, and even to the success-
ful exertions of heroic courage, may degenerate into pusil-
lanimous cowardice and contemptible dastardy, and all the
despicable crimes that follow in their train,— duplicity, false-
hood, meanness and treachery.

These are the vices of infancy, and they may debase
and torture every successive stage of life. Those of youth are
intemperance and incontinency. Forced away by the extra-
vagance of his passions, strengthened perhaps by an un^
meaning ambition ^ the self-immolated victim sacrifices his
health, his prosperity, his virtue^ and his happiness — at the
board, or in the bed — of debauchery. He forgets the charm
of the temperate and chearful meal, — and he has never
known the refined and exquisite intercourse of virtue and
love — that' fond hope, the first to be formed and the last re-
signed, by the warm imagination, pure heart, and culti^
vated intellect. Habit rivets his fetters, — he grows old in a
taverrr or a brothel — the inroads of vice are traced withia
and without — he possesses the features and the feelings of a
satyr — and having devoted his life to the vain pursuit of hap-
piness, he remains to the last unacquainted with its nature
and incapacitated for its enjoyment.

But there is something more to be observed than the mere
restraint of our passions. This probationary life abounds
with temptations, and we ought not to create them for ourr-

VOL. XII. u

146

- selves. We should prudentl}'' consider how we are consti-
tuted by nature, and not submit ourselves to trials too strong
for our virtue. Indifference or Apathy may walk over the
burning ploughshares, which Sensibility and Ardour cannot
approach with safety. That the earth shall be peopled, and
its inhabitants happy, rather than the wealth should encrease
and the pride be fostered, of families or individuals, is the
manifest design of Providence, He has therefore planted in
man and woman the strongest, and, in civilised life, the
most delicate of passions. It is the fashion to ridicule it as
absurd and romantic ; and the generality of marriages are
contracted with a determined disregard of this necessary party.
It is painful to reflect on the consequences daily oblruded
upon US. Love avenges too often the slights he receives ;
and the devotee of rank or fortune, finds too late, that nei-
ther can supply the place of affection. A habit of propriety,
or reverence for religion, may be safeguards in the iiour
of trial — but without them, what becomes of the deluded
tempter of her own virtue ; who in rebelling against the na-
tural institutions of the Author of her being, yields volun-
tarily to a life of struggles ; and sacrifices the finest feelings
with which he has hallowed our nature, to anguish and des-
pondence, or to shame and misery.

It is true, congenial minds may not always meet, or if they
meet, cannot always be united — but it is ever in our jxjwer
to shun a discordant union ; and how much happier than a

state iike this and all its faazanJs, is the tranquil tenor of ao
honorable celibacy.

Ambition is said to foe the vice of manfcopd, and avarice
of old age. They have perhaps attained their excess at tliose
periods, but their seeds iiave beeij ;sown much earlier. The
intrigues of the conrtk-r have probably tijeir origin in the
manceuvres of the sciioolboy — the eoveto-usaegs of decrepi-
tude, in the selfishiiess of cliildhootl — and all the evils of the
gamblitag tabJe, in tiie triivial biit pernicious games of chance,
to which children are Bometimes allowed to devote tliea>-,
selves, in dereliction of iHore AnanJ J,, esnergetic, a«d generous
s-ports.

But if the gerans of vice take ^.-n early root in the heart, so
do also those of virtUie. Nor tho8.e onJy which consis.t in self-
control, and the government of the jpassionSj but the positive
and more amiable virtues of veracity, generosity, courage,
raa'gnanimity, that philanthropy to which all manlsind, that
charity to which all creatures are dear. These two extensive
principles of b.enevolence bavetheir source in the narrow circle
of domestic affection. Even veracitj' is practised as a duty,
long IjefoTC tlie mind can have a distinct conception of truth
— courage developes itself in the infant — magnanimity in the
schoolboy. It is ahnost three tliousand years since the days
of Homer. In the course of that period, how many heroes
have sprung from the iuspiratian of his verses. Every pa&-
sage teem« with greatness ; and ont might be selected that
seems the v«ry matrix of heroism. Fxoin the youthful pye,

148

how many tears have flowed over the tenderness and magna-
nimity of Andromache and Hector. How many have wept
for the glory of a fate Hke his, and lived to deserve it.

A sense of piety is early implanted by the example of re-
ligious parents. But it has not struck its roots deeply and
immoveably in the mind, until we have experienced our con-
tinual dependance on the Author of our being for its mo-
mentary preservation — until perilous escapes assure us of his
providential protection, — untildespairingof our usual. supply,
we unexpectedly receive our daily bread ; and, though by
natural means, acknowledge that we owe it, nevertheless, to
his bounty, — until we are sensible that all the inhabitants of
the earth are equally his pensioners, — 'until we regard with
grateful wonder, the goodness that inspired, and the wisdom
that contrived the marvellous, yet natural arrangements, by
which he feeds us. Then, and not until then, when these
views and feelings are interwoven in our minds by the unre-
mitting and invincible force of habit, we may be satisfied
that we have laid the true foundations of our happiness.

But speculation is not sufficient to erectlhe edifice. Temp-
tations solicit and must be subdued, disappointments harass
and must be disregarded, afflictions overtake and must be
endured. But these habits are not often acquired in the
outset of life. We must long be familiar with temptation,
disappointment and affliction, before we attain the habitual
power of rising superior to them. It would be curious to

149

trace the common progress of the mind, among the inter-
mingled virtues and vices of the still semi-barbarous state of
civilised society. Golden dreams of prosperity tincture with
an honourable ambition, the hopes of youth. Romantic
visions of sympathetic affection and impassioned felicity
brighten his distant prospects. His sanguine expectations
waft him to an elysium where

-Love lights

- His constant lamp, and wares his purple wings.
Reigns there and rerels — not in the bought smile

Of Harlots loveless, joyless, unendeared

Casual fruition !

These are the virtuous and honourable views of most per-
sons in entering upon life; but the allurements of pleasure,
and incentives of passion too often hurry them from the path
they had deliberately chosen. But they soon find that in-
temperance, extravagance, and debauchery, are at loncc
crimes, and punishments ; that there are pleasures which can
only be purchased at the expence of the happiness of others ;
but that the generated Misery grapples, with redoubled
strength, its selfish Author — that Vice and Folly are unfailing
founders of the school of Adversity ; and that this Preceptor
is in its turn the best promoter of Virtue ; under his disci-
pline they learn to retrieve their former principles, they listen
to the hints of Conscience, and the precepts of Reason, and
are taught by them that present Enjoyment is too surely a pass*

150

port to Mjsery ; and that Seif-deiiial, Labour, and Pain, spin
the due, Uiat unravels ttae wa^ to .genuine Happiness.

Fortunate is th>e i«dividi*al who has passed through the
orde«l of youth, and enters on the threshold of manhood,
impressed with this conviction, and purified from the adhe-
sion -of any habitual depravity. But doubly fortunate is he,
who, resolute to withstand the strongest and keenest emo-
tions of his nature, except within the bounds of legitimate
gratification, finds early tlie halfowed opportunity, so ar-
dently wished for by every mind that possesses a spark of
sensibility or virtue. The present state of the world cannot
admit of extending this happy allotment to all, yet the ex-
cluded wretch finds consolation at last, even among the
dregs of disappointment. His mind gathers strength from
tlie pangs of defeated hope ; he compares his anguish, seated
as it is in the imagination, with the substantial miseries of
Others ; lie perceives that fortitude can subdue the former,
but can otily endure tlie latter ; he eovets the repose of in-
difference; he shrinks from the perturbations of suspense,
antJ exen from the tumults of joy ; he sinks into the listless
seat of resignation ; and if Philosophy places herself beside
hnn, co'ld and dispassionate as are her attractions, he will
not he without a mistress that can awaken him from his
apathy, and indulge him in pleasures unmingled with regret
or satiety.

It is in these torpid enjoyments, this delicious tranquility
that coBsis'ts perhaps the happiness of old age, the turmoils

151

of the world no longer possessing any interest, nor the enio-»
tions of passion any power. The memory feels no pain in
looking back even on afflictions — the imagination no plea-
sure in the foretaste of any earthly delight. Peace, quiea-»
cence and comfort take possession of the mrnd — and joy,
rapture and extacy are for ever excluded, unless their sun-
beams find admission through a vista that opens beyond the
grave.

• The moral progress of mankind differs little from that of
an individual; and many of the difficulties occurring in the
consideration of God's moral government, find an easy solu-
tion in the nature he has bestowed on man, and the powers
and privileges Avith which he has endowed him : ordaining as
one of his original laws, that the constitution he has esta-
blished for this peculiar being, shall not under any circum-
stances, however cogent they might appear to a superficial
inquirer, be infringed or violated, even by divine control,
restraint or interference.

The constitution of man comprehends those appetites and
passions so necessary, in their allotted uses, to the happiness
and very existence of the species, yet in their abuse so per-
nicious and destructive. It also comprehends the faculties
of conscience and reason — the one to check the wild career '
of passion, at the moment, by an instinctive communica-
tion, that to proceed is criminal,- — the other, to look into fu-
turity, to measure effects and discover consequences ; to-
ad nionish us of the perils, sure though remote, of impru-

152

dence and guilt; and in fine, lo elevate the nature of man,
by rendering him conversant with truth and virtue. And
last of all, in the human constitution is revealed that most
disputed of his faculties, yet the most absolute and inviolate
in the eye of its Author — free-will. By this, man has the
high prerogative of submitting, according to his inclinations,
to the government of his appetites and passions, or of his
conscience and reason. By this he becomes a moral and ac-
countable creature, is capable of vice or virtue, and ob-
noxious to punishment or reward.

Let us close for a moment the volume of history, and con-
sider what would be the probable conduct of creatures so
constituted, from their creation to the consummation of all
things. It is evident that the impulse of the passions would
be at first omnipotent. Conscience in its infancy is rather a
capacity than a power. We must witness oppression and
sympathise with the injured, before this faculty is developed:
we must meditate injustice, we must become in imagina-
tion a spectator of our offence, * we must feel that specta-
tor's sympathy for the offended, and then for the first time
Conscience finds employment. Reason is later in its exer-
cise; it must have witnessed sure and inevitable, though dis-
tant consequences, it must have learned that present pain
may end in future pleasure; and the happiness of a moment,
in the misery of years. Then, and not until then, does

• See Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments.

153

reason become a restraint upon the passions. It is there-
fore no wonder, if man in his freedom should yield himself
a slave to his appetites, and that his first step should be in
vice. Unassisted by reason and conscience, may vi^e enquire
with decorum what other barrier could be placed by the
Deity for the protection of his innocence, without infringing
on the established constitution of his nature. Perhaps we
might rationally say, some positive command to abstain
from an act in itself indifferent; but which, while obeyed,
would defend the approach of all transgression intrinsically
evil. Sucb a prohibition ought fully to counterpoise the
force of the passions ; but if once disobeyed, a recoil must
ensue proportioned to the restraint. Crime would naturall3'
follow crime, example become infectious, and habits of wick-
edness spread such corruption, that the business of life would
be violence, murder, and lust, in all their most ferocious and
detestable forms.

In this state of things Conscience would find sufficient food
for its growth ; and add to the anguish of vice without sap-
ping its power. Nor would Reason want employment, in re-
flecting on miseries, which multiply in proportion to crimes.
But half of the argument would lie beyond its grasp, it
could know nothing of the blessings that wait on the virtues.
In defiance of reason and conscience, the passions in all
their pollutions and horrors would therefore reign paramount.
The nature of man could afford no resource; and the earth

VOL. XII. V X

must remain a mass of encreasing corruption, unless Provi-
dence order the adequate remedy.

A remedy were easily found, if the counsels of God per-
mitted the violation of his prior establishments.- " Let
reason subdue the passions" were as easily said as " Let
there be light." But the law which ordained the freedom
of will, would then fall a sacrifice, that basis ©f virtue aijd
vice, of man's moral subjection, and God's moral government.

It would be more suitable to the operations of Providence
to dispense Avith a law less essential to the government of his
rational creation, and to select from mankind a virtuous few,
if yet such a remnant remained. Through these organs, de-
nouncing his vengeance, working on their fears, and appeal-
ing to their reason, men might be possibly drawn from their
ains and restored to a sense of gratitude anci duty. But if
all these eiForts should fail, and humankind sink brutalised
in one abyss of depravity. — If amendment were hopeless,
and example and habit should spread a contagion, daily en-
creasing, and for ever incurable, it were mercy to all future
generations of men to cut off the pestilence, even by the
terrible remedy of destroying the infected. As individuals,
they must naturally perish in a few years, bequeathing their
inveterate distempers to their children : as a multitude or a
race, their fate is more horrible ; but they do not transmk
a perpetual inheritance, to beings created to be pure and
happy, of abominable vice and hideous misery.

155

It is natural to suppose that the impression of these awful
judgments on the surviving few, must at least deter them
from the most enormous crimes of their vile progenitors ;
but their jaundiced eye would scarcely discriminate between
lesser offences and virtues : and the corruption of the extin-
guished generation would still entail some portion of its poison
on the succeeding. Want of temperance, of filial piety,
of chastity would soon be apparent; and. more atrocious
vices, in time might renew such inveterate an^ irremediable
habits, as could only be destroyed with the communities
they afflicted. Reason however would have ampler exercise,,
and would not always yield the triumph to the passions. But
reason itself would naturally stray from truth ; and, as yet,
an unskilful guide, would lead mankind into a thousand per-
nicious errors and absurdities.

Reflecting on the mixture of good and evil, the human
understanding perversely hunting after subtilties, would na-
turally overlook the eftect of the passions, and ascribe the
existence of vice and misery to an imaginary Principle oA'
evil, contending for ever witb God the Principle of goodj
«n<l almost sharing with him his omnipotence. To this phan-
tastie Being tlie apprehensions of men would unavoidably
lead them to bow in adoration. They would gradually mul-
tiply him into as many divinities, as they fancied there were
objects of dread : and all trace of God himself would be
lost in a sitoilar distribution of his attributes, among as many
objects of bcnevolonce and power. Reason itself would ac-

166

quiesce in the propriety of consecrating to these objects of
hope and terror, all tl)at was most dear and precious to their
votaries ; and the sacrifice of their flocks would soon be suc-
ceeded by the immolation of their children.

At such a crisis, if no remedy were to be found in human
resources, and that the intervention of the Supreme Being
became a matter of necessity, with our experience of his
counsels, there is little presumption in conjecturing what
course his wisdom would be likely to adopt, and how far it
would be seconded by human conduct. If previous to its
execution, the scheme were submitted to our judgment,
should we not think it adequate to the end proposed, if God
should raise up a nation consecrated to his service and in-
structed in his laws, confessing his hand in its miraculous
origin, its miraculous education, its miraculous establish-
ment, attached to his parental care by reiterated deliver-
ances and unceasing blessings so long as it deserved his
favour; and recalled to its allegiance by the severity of pa-
rental castigations, whenever it departed from the knowledge
he revealed and the obedience he required.

Such a nation, though surrounded with the absurdities of
Polytheism, which plunged the rest of mankind in folly and
iniquity, would still, in the main, preserve consistent no-
tions of the one true God, his power and providence. Time
qnd habit would engraft them in the understanding, and
miraculous intervention be no longer necessary. But man
is prone to change ; and the solemnities and circumstances

^57 ;

prescribed as a barrier to separate the favoured nation from
the corruptions of the earth, would in time be regarded as
the essentials of religion. It would therefore be necessary
to re-estiiblish it upon its true and only basis, the Love of
God and Man. And if civilisation and science had already
awakened the other nations to a suspicion of the errors that
obscured their understanding, the season must then have
arrived for reveahng to all mankind, "The Unknown God."

These important objects could hardly be accomplished
without the aid of miracles; and the manifest assent of the
Deity to the promulgated doctrines. After so long an inter-
val, they would carry accumulated force; and if the former
series was of a nature to ratify his tremendous power, by its
public exertion in favour of the only people who believed in
his name; the latter series ought to be adapted to announce
bis good will to all the inhabitants of the earth ; and by the
exercise of particular instances of omnipotent benevolence,
convince mankind of his unremitting and universal Provi^
dence, that shields them through the warfare of life, and
makes death itself but the gate of immortality.

Should these miracles be submitted to the inquisition of
the senses, those grand and only inlets of our knowledge —
should the doctrines they were brought to sustain be fur-
ther supported by ancient predictions marvellously verified — -
should events be then foretold which were afterward ful-
filled in all their parts, or so far accomplished as that succes-
sive generations might witness their progressive completion-^

' 158

should the very actors and witnesses of these transactions have
instituted ceremonies that have descended without interrup-
tion through the lapse of ages — should they have unfolded
their simple doctrines, and detailed the extraordinary acts
they performed or witnesses], in unadorned compositions,
some of them intended as a lasting record, and others for
mere temporary purposes, yet all of them transmitted to pos-
terity, and found to be a reciprocal voucher and confirmation
of their mutual truth — should all this accumulated evidence
be offered to our deliberate consideration, it seems sufficient
to command our assent. But it is not calculated to com-
mand that assent, without that deliberate consideration. It
does not bring intuitive .conviction, like an axiom; but puts
our reasoning powers into motion, and appeals to the im-
pix)ved and ripened judgment. Were it intended by our
great moral Governor, that, unlike every other evidence, we
should believe this, without enquiry or investigation, he
would l>ave left no room for doubt or hesitation ; but by a
miracxilous compulsion have rendered mankind believers,
and thus have invaded their great privilege of free will : or
have established such a universal system of miracles, as
would forc« intuitive conviction on every individual, and
thus have suppressed the exercise of his reason (the grand
characteristic of the species) in matters best entitled to its
mo'st strenuous exertion.

It seems plea'sing to God to obser\'e the gradual develope-
iTTe«4t, rapid growth ami gigantix; strides of this wonderful

159

faculty ; and while lie presents it with facts sufficient to
awiaken its powers, or convey a hint, of the discoveries it may
reach, lie appears most scrupulously to abstain from stifling
its eiforts- by ^n overwhelming pressure of incont<rovertible
testimony. He suffers it to err and detect itg errors — to build
hypotheses and then to overturn them, and perhaps amidst
thi? ruins tp discover the hidden foundations of truth— to ac-
quire strength in its progress from the birth to tl^ie maturity
of its possessorr-rfrom the birth to the maturity of the species
— unassisted unbias.sed, and uncontrolled by his interference.

We may therefore expect that in his revel'ations to man,
however authenticated by miracles, he will always leave room
for the exercise of this power. Nor should we be astonished,
if his instruments be huifnan, to detect human doctrines
sometimes mingled witlj divine. Much less have we any
grounds to suppose, if an unauthorised host of expositors
and disputants misapprehend his promulgations, and preach
their own follies in his name, that he will miraculously re-
form their reason, or control their free will. And least of all
;if in support of their impious absurdities, they weaken and
corrupt his doctrines by interpolations, forgeries, frauds,
.and false miracles, that his divine intervention will interrupt
thqir career, by a preternatural obstacle, when he has pre-
viously provided a sufficient impediment, in the Reason he
ha-s given us.

Much has already been done by this natural guide, in de-
tecting and exposing the silly and criminal inventions of

160

men. But it also is true, her instructions have not been
universally adopted ; and multitudes are content to continue
the slaves of example and habit, and abandon tliemselves in
the vigour and manhood of their understandings to a system
of errors, fit only to impose on the credulity of childhood,^
or the inanity of dotage.

This perversion of intellect could scarcely have arisen,
were it not for a term of fearful importance among the abet-
tors of human degradation. They have not invented the
word — but the}' have distorted its meaning. Faith may be
sometimes interpreted simply " belief" — sometimes " reli-
ance on God," and perhaps it sometimes is used in this
double capacity : but never except in the glossaries of igno-
rance, superstition, or enthusiasm, does it signify " an assent
to a conclusion unsupported by premises" — nor can it be
supposed by a sane understanding, that God is best pleased
with his creatures, when they most firmly believe without evi-
dence, what the faculties he bestowed declare most incre-
dihle. On the contrary, it is manifest, that if it is in the
power of human beings to acquire the favour of God, it
must be by the exercise of that towering faculty, which keeps
the passions in subjection, enlarges, the dominion of the in-
tellect, and in unfolding the immensity of nature, elevates
the mind to a conception of its stupendous Author.

As the reason of man advances toward perfection, the im-
provement of the physical and moral world must necessarily
advance with equal strides. Every addition of knowledge is

161

an addition of power; and the acquisition of an unknown
truth is a step to other truths still more recondite. Science
has already accomplished prodigious things, and how far she
may diffuse her sway, is at present inconceivable. As civi-
lization extends, the very earth learns to assume another
aspect ; — as the moral sentiment prevails, the encreased re-
finement of ociety becomes more prominently manifest.
Vice abandons her grossness, or she would not be endured ;
and if her seductions are more dangerous in the garb of de-
licacy, the triumphant progress of virtue is but the more
conspicuous. Remote is the period, but we may hope that
it will one day arrive, when under the cultivation of man,
his habitation shall become a second paradise ; and as the
self-same Reason that unlocks the secrets of Nature, and
almost puts her operations in his power, also commits to his
hand the control of his passions and the direction of his
will, — at that propitious period, he will gradually have be-
come a Being qualified for his renovated residence ; vice and
misery, war, pestilence and famine, will be perhaps unknown,
except in the salutary records of their ravages; and the easy
yoke of virtue and religion, will be no longer a burden or
restraint, but, — accompanied by the anticipation of conse-
quences, and the power of habit, — will become undeferred
and present felicitj-.

In this discussion of the moral progress of man, we have
almost lost sight of the love of novelty; so trivial is. its in-
VOL. XII. y

1^2

ffueiice, compared with that of habit, hi propa-gating the
virtues and vices. Yet it is hot without its operation; and
the mode in which it acts ought not to be oiftitfed. Novelty
is cine of the moving springs of those feehngs, which occa-
sion actions, tlmt afterwa^rds become habituat. The more
seldom we have witnessed misery, the lAofe intense is oup
corn passion ; but it is a ehance whether tiie pain we feel ex-
cites our aversion to the object, or impells us to relieve him.
In either case, the keen sense of pity grows more obtuse as
it finds occasion for exercise ; btrt every occasion tends tc
estabhsh the habit of turning with disgust from the appear-
ance of wretehedneiss, or hastening to its aid with consola-^
tion and succour. Exetcise diminishes the force of impwes*'
sions, but strengthens the power of habit. This is not owing
to two distinct laws, as might be imagined, but to one and
the same. For every habit to which we are subject, whether
intellectual or corporeal, gradually los€s the power of exciting
attention ; so that a certain train of thought or action, which
in the commencement, could not take place without making
a lively impression, in consequence of the exertion it re-
quired, or the sense of nofelty it occasioned, afterwards
Occtirs so spontaneously and in course, particularly when the
Jjabit is strongest, as often to escape observation altogether.
Just as opium or any other medicine or condiment in con-
stant use, gradually loses its effects on the constitution, un-
less its quantity be encreased or its form altered ; so pity,
^ief, hatred and love itself, cease in tin'ie to create their

wonted seosationsi; unless the object of these passions has
the happy art of adding to the stimuJus, by tjae mixture of
some novel ingredient.

But with or without the excitement, the habit progres-
sively strengthens ; while the organs become more and more
insensible of its existence. For example : poison itself taken
into the stomach in quantities too small to injure the health,
and gradually augmented, affects the constitution as little as
its ordinary food ; and habit renders that viscus so familiaris-
ed to its effects, that it would require a great and sudden in-
crease of the quantity, to destroy its powers or endanger
life. In like manner the muscles, inured to any particular
action, as sweeping the strings or gliding over the keys of
a musical instrument, discharge their functions unbidden,
and with the rapidity of lightening. And this surprising vo-
lubility of execution excites no attention, nor requires the
slightest exertion of will, unless interrupted by some novel
occurrence, as when a person accustomed to perform alone,
undertakes to play in concert j or excelling on one instru-
ment only, attempts to thrum on another. It is not other-
wise with the passions. The emotions of love gradually sub-
side. The mind habituated to their impressions no longer
swells into tumult; yet all the tender offices of affection
follow each other spontaneously and unobserved, because
they have become too natural to require the interference of
the attention or will. But when some unexpected proof of
sensibility and fondness touches a responsive string, we feel

16'%

it with the force of a first impression ; and it is an ungrateful
heart that can forbear to exclaim with Moore,

" Give smiles to those who love you less,
" But keep jour tears for nie,"

Our rational and moral faculties obey the same law ; and
an absurd opinion is cherished through life as an incontro-
vertible truth, and a shameful vice as an amiable failing,
until they are pushed to a novel and unusual extremity ; and
then they give an alarm to reason or conscience, and the true
nature of each stands revealed ; though habit perhaps will
continue to cling to them both, in spite of conviction.

Such are the powers of habit and the effects of novelty.
Their conjoined operation in man has been wisely contrived ;
and each has most influence, at that season of life, when most
it is requisite. In early infancy the love of novelty, so neces-
sary to excite the energies and develope the understanding,
greatly preponderates : and no habit is formed that may not
be abandoned at will. In youth this affection long finds em-
ployment; but in time the two principles begin to balance
each other: the desire for new objects grows gradually
■weaker; unless indeed a thirst of knowledge is excited, and
this is insatiable: and habits of virtue and vice now strike
their roots, but as yet not so deep but they may be eradi-
cated. In manhood the counterpoise at length is complete.
The passion for novelty finds exercise in pursuit of know-
ledge and truth. The habits become fixed, and virtue or

165

vice is establised on foundations of adamant. Old age comes
at last, and habit reigns paramount. The knowledge al-
ready acquired is considered the ne plus ultr^ of human at-
tainments ; and innovations in philosophy, religion, or po-
litics, are regarded with horror. Before this period of life.
Vice has most commonly cut off her votaries. The hoary
profligate is an object as rare as disgusting. But even the
young and the gay, the thoughtless and giddy, the dissipated
and the vicious, unite to pay homage to the burden of years
tcdorned by virtue, and enjoying or prepared to enjoy the re-
wards of the virtuous.

On a view of the whole of our subject, we well may con-
clude that it should be the constant solicitude and ardent
ambition of rational beings to improve the love of novelty
into a desire after knowledge and truth* and the in-
fluence of HABIT into the practice of virtue and

PIETY.

<?J!

CONTENTS,

Page
THE Characteristics of Habit compared with those of the

Love of Novelty - -99

The Origin and Progress of these Principles in relation to
s the Senses of Feeling, Smell, and Taste - 102

The Agency of Habit in perfecting the Organ of Sight ]08

The Influence of Novelty in relation to the objects of Sight 1 19

The Agency and Influence of both Principles in relation to
the Sense of Hearing, and the Faculties connected with it 125

The Effects of Habit on our involuntary Functions 135

The Effects of Habit on our voluntary Functions - 136

The Influence of Habit and the Love of Novelty on our
Opinions - - 140

The Influence of these Principles on our Morals - 143

The Moral Progress of Individuals ' - 148

The Moral Progress of Mankind - 151

A Summary View of the distinct and conjoined Effects of
Habit and Novelty on our involuntary and voluntary
Functions, and our rational and moral Faculties , J 61

ESSAY

THE INVENTION

ALPHABETIC WRITING.

Read, May 8th, 1815.

L HE difficulty of accounting for the invention of Alpha-
betic Writing, and the impossibihty of tracing any connexion
between letters, which are the representatives of sounds,
and hieroglyphics which are resemblances of things, has
induced men of extraordinary erudition and talents, to a&<-
cribe the gift to a direct revelation from heaven. And when
we consider the prodigious sagacity, the wonderful powers
of discrimination, the profundity of thought, and the almost
infinite comprehension requisite to analyse words into their
component parts — sounds appearing simple, into sounds
still more simple — to discover that the multitude of words
in a language are composed of a very small number of
sounds — to ascertain precisely this small number, and to

VOL. XII. z

168

annex a mark to eacli, we shall not be astonished that the
eminent men to whom I have alluded, should deem the
human mind incapable of such an effort, and esteem it ne-
cessary to cut the knot by a miraculous intervention of the
Deity.

Hartley conjectures that the communication was first
made to Moses, on the delivery, at mount Sinai, of the two
tables which the sacred historian declares to have been writ-
ten by the finger of God ;* and Wakefield (who, still less
than Hartley, can be suspected of weakness or credulity)
supports a similar opinion by very convincing arguments,-]'
•without adverting, however, to the particular occasion on
which the revelation was made to the Hebrews, or even
referring to the discussion of Hartley on the subject. But
so great are the achievements, so extensive the dominion
attempted and attained by the mind of man, that I am more
inclined to solve the difficulty in a natural way, by ascrib-
ing the discovery to those exertions which have hitherto found
a specific for every want, as soon as the want was felt, ra-
ther than assume, without manifest necessity, a departure
from the course of nature, and those laws by which Provi-
dence visibly governs the world.

It. may be said that when alphabetic writing was first
adopted, there was not such a want of the pieans ofre-

* Hartley on Man, 1st v. 308. octavo edition,
f Second Appendix to Gilbert Wakefield's Life.

169

cording events, opinions, and laws,, as would spur the
human mind to the exertions requisite to this great dis-»
covery. Mankind must have been in possession of Pieture-
writing, Ilieroglyphies, or that improvement upon them
which exists at present among the Chinese, and these were
sufticient for all their purposes. They arc, it is true, greatly
inferior to the alphabetic mode of writing; but as the former
could never improve into the latter — as the}'^ are each per-
fectly distinct and unconnected in their kinds — as one repre-
sents things and ideas, and the other neither things nor ideas
in the first instance, but sounds, how could the former mode
be abandoned, and the latter adopted, when the one though
inconvenient seemed fitted to all the wants of the writer;
and the other was not only untried, but was even of such a
nature, as that no sagacity could conjecture its utility untii
subjected to reiterated trial ?

It has been ascertained that the nations bordering on
China, and which speak a different language, can read and
understand the Chinese when written, though they cannot
comprehend a word of it when spoken;* and in perusing
a Chinese work, it is their own language they pronounce,
and not that of China : and this because the characters re-
present things and ideas — not sounds. We should there-
fore be inclined to suppose that two natives of China might

* Staunton's Account of the Embassy to China.— Vol, 3. p. 420. 2d. edit.

170

use different Avords, jDrovided their meaning was similar, in
reading the same passage. For example; one man, accord-
ing as his st^'le was familiar, formal or easy, compressed or
diffuse, might read certain characters thus: — " The deeds of
talented men weigh more than the precepts of wise ones." —
iinother: — " Genius that acts, is of more importance than
Wisdom that declaims." — A third : — " The actions of the
able are superior in value even to the words of the wise." —
And there can be little doulit but that this was the case in
ihe infancy of their written language. It has now, however,
anived at the highest perfection of which, perhaps, it is sus-
ceptible.— The prodigious number of its words, for each of
which there is a separate character, comprehends a multitude
ofsynonimes. — Most of the words are monosyllables ; and
as each is designated by a distinct character, the sound is as
perfectly ascertained as if it was intentionally rcpresent-ed;
and the only inconvenience, (but which is almost an insur-
mountable one), is the incredible number of characters
that become necessary, when every word must have its own
peculiar representative.

There was a time, however, among the Chinese, Egyptians,
and other nations, using similar symbols, when the art of
writing was yet in its infancy, and its progress in improve-^
ment but little advanced. — At such a period, the characters
must have been confined in the strictest sense to the repre-
sentation of things and ideas only; and in pronouncing them,
any word miglit be used in the place of one which was

171

synoninious. The meaning might still be certain, though
not so precise as if sounds had been represented by those
characters; yet there could not be that strong necessity for
the signs of sounds, which would be sufficient to instigate
the mind to labour after so profound and recondite a disco-
very. What then, it may be asked, could create this strong
necessity? — I reply, in a word, Poetry — and Poetry alone.

Circumstances may be picturesque and ideas poetical, but
thjgy do not constitute poetry, unless they are clad in the
language of the Muses. The harmonious flow of sounds is
the very essence of a poem; and to fix and consohdate
their volatile and evanescent nature, to give them stability
and render them permanent, can only be accomplished by
marks which represent them ; and not by the symbols of ideas,
or the pictures of things. Hieroglyphics, or the improved
characters to which Hieroglyphics in the first instance gave
birth, could never have become the record of an Iliad 6t
Mneid. — An alphabet was necessary to preserve them'for suc-
ceeding ages. — Nay, withouf an alphabet, they would' pef-
haps have perished during the very life of the poet Avho
produced them ; or possibly the most admired of his epis-
odes would have continued their ephemeral existence, only
so long as his memory could retain theni. Let us then ima-
gine a Homer, a Virgil, or a Milton, carried away by hi^
sublime conceptions and the melody by which he gate them
utterance — satisfied that they were worthy to excite emci-
tions of delight and wonder in the latest posterity, yet pef-

173

suaded that they were destined to vanish from existence, even
at the moment they flowed from his lips — let us imagine those
circumstances, and we shall have no difficulty in conceiving
how an enthusiastic individual impressed with these emotions
would exert every power of his intellect, to preserve from
annihilation compositions v/hich ought to be immortal. The
motive would be sufficient for any labour of invention how-
ever surprising; and it may not be an uninteresting employ-
ment to discover, if possible, the progressive steps by which
the task might have been accomplished.

Whether the inventor was of India, Chaldea, Phoenicia, or
Egypt, he has not succeeded in transmitting to our days the
verses which he intended to immortalise; or even a name
that might justly rank, among the most illustrious of man-
kind, beyond that of Homer himself. Yet in the place of
those works, for whose celebrity he perhaps alone was inter-
ested, he has bestowed upon us a gift of more value and in-
terest than an hundred Iliads. — Not that it perpetuates those
divine compositions which have humanised man, ameliorat-
ed his nature, and elevated his character with the traits of
nobleness and magnanimity; — not that it has enabled him
to record with unequivocal precision his observations and
sentiments, and to argue, discuss, and ascertain with pre-
eminent accuracy, every shade of probability, and limitation
of truth within the cognisance of his faculties. — Not that it
facilitates his progress in natural, moral, or intellectual phi-
losophy, and the discovery of those simple and admirable laws

173

by which the earth and the universe, matter and mind are
so wonderfully governed — but because this extraordinary
gift, which I am ahnost tempted to call divine, even while
1 am proving it to be human, opens at once the doors of
knowledge to all mankind: — roots up the labyrinths of dark-
ness that surrounded every temple of science; and admits,
not the philosopher, and the legislator only ; but the citizen,
the mechanic, the rustic, and the labourer — nay the Avhole
mass of society, civilised or dawning into civilisation, within,
those portals, from which, without its simple but powerful-
assistance, it must have been helplessly and hopelessly ex-
cluded.

How little did the original inventor conceive the inher-
ent powers of his invention, destined to be one day multi-
plied ten thousand fold, by the less profound, but no
less important, discovery of Printing. — Little did he imagine
that he had set a force in operation, which was to overturn
ignorance and barbarism in every class of society, and we
may venture to predict, in every horde of the speciesj, how-
ever at present degraded, and pour over the surface of the
globe in irresistible streams, the blessings of knowledge,,
liberty, and happiness.

But let us turn from the sublime effects to the lowly in-
strument and unconscious prime-mover. Let us endeav-
our to analyse the process, by Avhich a human being might
have contrived an arrangement, which collectivel}' regarded,,
might not unreasonably be deemed beyond the reach of hu-
man ingenuity, yet when elucidated by ,the analysis which
shall be immediately explained, the invention, it is believed,..

iT4

will appear not merely a matter of possibility, but an ev6ril
of natural occurrence.

Let us begin the investigation by tracing, if we can, the
mode of proceeding which rtiight have been adopted by any of
our great epic poets, if he had not the means of recording his
verses, yet was anxiously bent on transmitting them to post-
erity. Let us suppose Homer, Virgil, or Milton, labouring
under this predicament, and endeavouring distinctly to note
down the successive sounds which compose the first verses
of the Iliad, iEneid, or Paradise Lost. Let us select one pf
this immortal triumvirate ; and as the Latin Language is
more uniform in its sounds than the English, and the Ro-
man letter more convenient than the Greek for combining
two or more characters into one, as will be found serviceable
in explaining the process of the invention, let the Roman
Poet on the present occasion be our guide.

Having composed and committed to memory the four
first lines of the ^neid, he would have no difficulty in divid-
ing the words into syllables as he pronounced them.

Ar-ma vi^rum-que ca-no, Tro-jae qui pri-mus ab o - ris
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13, U. 15.

I-ta-li-am, fa-to pro-fu-gus, La-vi-na-que ve-nit
16.17."18. 19. 20.21.22. 23. 24. 25. 26.27. 28. 29.30.

Lirto-ra: mul-tum il-le et ter-ris jac-ta-tus et al-to,
31. 32. 33. 34. 33. S6.S7.38. 39 40. 41. 42. 48. 44. 45. 46.
Vi su-pe-rum, sse-vae me-mo-rem Ju-no-nis ob i-ram.*
47.48.49. 50. 51. 52. S3. 54. 55. 56.57. i8. 59. 60. 61.

• Numbers are placed under the sereral syllable* that the reader may trace them
in the subsequent tables.

175

But as every syllable would seem a simple sound, he would
be under the necessil}^ of noting each by a separate charac-
ter. In the lines just quoted he would find sixty-one sylla-
bles ; but as thirteen of them are repetitions, forty-eight
characters would suffice to designate them. Having suffici-
ently familiarised himself with these characters, so as to re-
collect the sound by the sign, and the sign by the sound, he
would naturally group together those signs which represent-
ed sounds bearing the slightest degree of resemblance to
each other. In this process he would find his forty-eight
characters arrange themselves in five columns, perhaps in
the order in which I shall represent them. He might have
chosen different configurations, straight or curved, simple or
complicated, for his characters ; but I shall select for mine
such as will remind my reader of the sounds which they are
intended to represent.

5. 26.47. M.!

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YOL. XII.

A A

176

It is scarcely necessary to observe that in forming this
arrangement he would naturally place, as I have done, the
characters in the order in which the sounds occurred in the
verses he was endeavouring to analyse. — For example, he
would place Ar in the first column of the table ; — ma in the
^ame column, vi in the second column, n^min the third, que
in the fourth, ca in the first again, and uo in the fifth -, and
the prevailing sounds in the respective columns would not
be in the order of our vowels, but thus: — a. i. u. e. o. and
with respect to the situation of the characters in each co-
lumn, they would be nearer the top or bottom in proportion
as the sounds they represented were near the beginning or
end of the verses submitted to this process. I have only to
add that a person accustomed to pronounce the Latin lan-
guage after the English fashion, may object to my arranging
together sounds so dissimilar as vi and m, fu and mus; but
there are strong grounds to believe that they were not so
pronounced by Virgil. The Italians, the French, the Span-
ish, th'C Portuguese ; — in fact all those nations whose lan-
guages are derived to any extent from the Latin, for the most
part agree in pronouncing a as in all, i as in ill, o as in ore,
and u as in pure; e sometimes as in revere, and sometimes
as in revcrij ; and their evidence on this point has the force
of four witnesses, testifying and coroborating the testimony
of each other, that the Romans, from whom they derive their
lajUguages, transmitted to them also this mode of pronounc-
ing them.

But to return to Virgil, and the task we have assigned
him : — In separately studying the columns, as abeve arrang-
ed, he would perceive several sounds very closely resembling
each other, yet at the same time distinctly difterent. I al-
lude to the syllables which rhyme to each other, such as
7na, ca, fa, la; — no, to, pro, m6, &c. He would clearly dis-
cover the simple sound a or o which he could distinctly
pronounce, pervading all those rhymes; and he would at
the same time ascertain that it was in every instance com-
bined with another and different sound, which he could not
separately articulate, but which, like an invisible elastic fluid
in a chemical investigation, would satisfy him of its presence
by its effects.

Now for the first time he would entertain sanguine hopes
of success ; and in the ardour of discovery he might possibly
hasten to dissect, and assign distinct characters to the
sounds in his several columns : or perhaps he would more
systematically make a new arrangement of those columns,
placing together in separate groups the several rhymes, for
the purpose of entering on a more minute comparison of
their component sounds. If such was a necessary step in
the process, the following table may exhibit his new arrange-
raent.

A A 2 '

ytm

!038

1.78

J9^

3. ?<f.

16. 6o.
Ig .V.

''7- ^.

cai

I
u.

■1 . JO.

.v>.

12.
24.
43.

RIM
TM

MIS
GUS
TUS,

,5. 2g.
fi.

29. J2.

37.

Jl.

OlE
JL

If:

7 v'
it

21
.54.

„;. ID,:
PRO!

M),

//. 42.

20.

2.y

27.

(A
K

IJ -'lO.

MS
NS.

23.
49.

m
u.

.X''

QB i

3g. U.

S6.

13.

39.

36.

MI-

35.

HEM

4t.

IL.

; \\ ) iS

V In considering the first of the five columns in this table,
he would scarcely in his early essays be able to ascertain
whether the sound Jr at the head of the column were sim-
ple or compound, not having another sound of suflScient
resemblance with which to compare it. He would there-
fore proceed to the next sound ma and would find ample
scope for his sagacity, in comparing it with the six succeed-
ing sounds : ca, ta, fa, la, na, ra ; and surely it would not
require the inspiration of heaven to enable him to discover

179

on comparing them, that the sound a existed in each, com-
bined with another sound which could not be articulated
without it. These indistinct sounds his- mind could, how-
ever, embrace and discriminate. To make sure of his dis-
covery he would affix a character to each, as well as to the
articulate sound with which it was combined; and the
first fruits of his labour would be the letters o, m, c, t,f, I,
n, r. The discovery of the last mentioned letter would
enable him to return to the analysis of the sound which
he passed over at first ; and as he had succeeded in find-
ing that ra was composed of the sounds indicated by an r
and an a, he would readily perceive that Ar, the first sylla-
ble of Arma, was but a transposition of the same sounds
in the order o. r.

This minute circumstance can be but little interesting at
present ; yet no doubt it was of the highest importance to
the inventor of the alphabet; for it furnished him with a
test to discover whether a sound were simple or compound.
In attempting to repeat in every possible way, any one of
those sounds that have since been called vowels, it still re-
nmins the same, and cannot be inverted. It is therefore a
simple sound. But combine it with another and the com-
pound admits of an easy inversion: ma becomes am, la, be-
comes al, ^c. After this discovery, the only difficulty that
could occur, in considering the first column, would i>e the
analysis of syllables composed of three sounds. The firet
that presents itself is ram, the last syllable of ira/w, and this

180 •

is no longer a difficulty. It has already been analysed ; and
the sounds of which it is composed, arranged in the incipi-
ent alphabet under the characters r, a, m,

The same simple procedure would unravel the^ mysteries
of the remaining four columns. To every sound he would affix
its appropriate mark; and to &\Qvy mark he would assign but
the power of representing one sound. No dipthongs would
enter into his system. — They appear it is true in the verses
selected from Virgil. But the Romans did not invent their
own alphabet; the}' borrowed it from the Greeks, as the
Greeks borrowed theirs from the Phoenicians ; who, it may
be said, are indebted for their alphabet to the Hebrews, as
the old Hebrew or Samaritan characters are nearly the same
as the Pha3nician. It may still, however, be considered a
disputable point, whether these people did not communicate
their alphabet to the Hebrews, as well as to the Greeks.
But the original inventor of the alphabet, whatever was his
country, would naturally mark every sound in his language
by a single character ; and those which are distinguished at
present by the dipthongs ae and oe he would indicate sim-
ply by the character e.

.,i It is remarkable that the analysis of the four first verses
of the ^neid would have furnished its author, not only with
all the vowels, but with fourteen consonants; a number al-
most equal to that which exists in the modern alphabet.
Were the same process to be exercised on the succeeding
-verses, the deficiency no doubt would soon be supplied, aad

ISl

all the Latin characters appear in perfect array. Those
elicited by the process we have jnst been supposing, would
naturally occupy the following order, if taken as they ap-
pear in the last arrangement of the columns, beginning with
the first and terminating with the fifth.

R-

10 J.

14 r.

15 p.

16 S.

17 G.

18 E.

19 0.

r ~\

20 D.

21 H.

22 K.

23 W.

Deficient

24 X

25 Y.

26 Z. J

And a glance of the eye will convince us that even these
without any addition constitute an alphabet very nearly
perfect: for with respect to the characters deficient, d is
but the softened sound of t. — h but an aspiration. — k
has the same power as c hard. — w is not necessary in Latin,

or the languages originating from it. — x is a oom pound of
c s.—y differs little in its powers from i. — And z is but a
softened s.

Every step the inventor advances, the easier he finds the
succeeding. Having travelled through the analysis of the
two first columns, he has already discovered three vowels
and thirteen consonants ; in the remaining three columns he
has only two vowels and one consonant to add to his pos-
sessions, for all the other sounds, whether simple or com-
plex to be found in those columns, have already been ex-
amined and arranged in his alphabet.

At this stage of the process, we cannot but reflect on the
astonishment he must have experienced, on thus discovering
the paucity of simple sounds existing in the complicated
variety of a language. Sixty-one syllables, containing forty-
eight distinct sounds, are reduced and simplified into nine-
teen ; and these nineteen are found in prosecuting the in-
vestigation, to be nearly sufficient to represent the entire of
a language. He might have previously reasoned him-
self into a conjecture that the simple sounds were much
fewer in number than the compound ; but until the com-
pletion of the experiment, the most sanguine imagination
could never have approached within many degrees of the
truth.

Thus might a single individual have brought to perfection
this wonderful discovery. Indeed we are ahnost compel-
led to admit from its nature, that it could only have been

183

achieved by a single individual. Any progress one man
might make before his ideas were completely developed
could not possibly tend to assist any other. It is then na-
tural to presume that we owe to the self-same mind, the
conception of the plan ; every stage of the process ; and its
perfect and final accomplishment, in so far at least as the
compass extended of the sounds which he had occasion to
represent : and from this original invention, it can scarcely
be doubted, were copied all the alphabets entitled to the
name, which ever existed.

Astle, it is true, Avhose laborious and extensive researches
on the subject entitle his opinion to the utmost attention
and deference, asserts that several of the Asiatic alphabets,
which differ in the names, number, and power of the charac-
ters from the Phoenician, and those of which it was the
source, must have been altogether of a separate and unde-
rived origin ; and that it is most liberal as well as rational
to suppose that diflerent men at different times thought of
making marks for sounds, instead of marks for things.*
But strong as are the facts which he adduces> I am unable
to divest myself of the opinion that the author of any
alphabet, posterior to that originally invented, must have
been previously acquainted either with it or some other de-
rived from it ; and that where no traces of similitude are

VOL. XII. B B

* See the 4th chapter of Astle on the Origin and Progress of Writing.

184

observable, that he adopted at least the principle on which
those prior alphabets were formed ; — rejecting their charac-
ters, either on account of some difficulty in applying them
to a language requiring very different powers to designate
its sounds ; or perhaps from the vanity of encountering
greater difficulties, and a wish to be considered an original
inventor. Yet any man's ambition ought to be sufficiently
gratified by the mere act of bestowing so inappreciable a
gift upon his nation. What would not the Chinese owe to
the individual, who could persuade their government to en-
courage the use of our characters, in place of that cumber-
some and unmanageable machinery, which, if not the sole,
has been the principal obstacle to their progress in the fine
arts, literature, and science, the cultivation of the mind,
and the intellectual embellishment of society.

It may be said that what has been done once may be
done again. But so many circumstances must have con-
curred in the discovery of alphabetic writing, even in the
simplified view we have been considering, that it seems to
present, at least, one obstacle to the general application of the
remark. If there be any plausdoility in the process I have
detailed, we can scarcely suppose that a plurality of indivi-
duals could have arisen in different ages and nations, quali-
fied for the accomplishment of such a task ; — all of them poets
— all producing poems worthy, at least in their own estima-
tion, of descending to after ages — all eager and enthusiastic
to find a certain and permanent record for their verses : —

185

all, thus prompted to the undertaking, in possesion at the
same time of the means of carrying it into execution : — a
comprehension which could survey the intricate mazes of a
language^ and suspect that the whole might be reduced to
a few simple sounds — a judgment that could decide on the
possibility of designating those sounds, which inferior powers
of. discrimination would deem as difficult to delineate as
pictures of odours, and tastes, and internal sensations: — a
sagacity and genius fit to discover seeming impossibilities to
be possible — and an indefatigable and pertinacious persever-
ance, that most efficient attribute of great minds, which
demonstrates the possibility of an enterprise by its actual
performance.

If this combination of circumstances, motives and qualifi-
cations must have concurred in the production of alphabetic
writing, is it probable that such a conjunction should occur
more than once ? I admit that it is possible — but to my
understanding, it is equally possible that a knowledge of the
^circulation of the blood, and the laws of gravitation, might
also be discovered in different countries and times ; and
that Harveys and Newtons are to be esteemed but common
productions of nature.

If it be admitted that the elementary alphabet may have
owed its birth to poetry, it must also be confessed that the
syllabic alphabets of the Ethiopians and Tartars* must have

B B.2

* See Goguet's origin of Laws, Arts" and Sciences— Vol. ist. pi 178. And Rees's
Encyclopedia. Articfe Alphabet.

186

had a similar origin. It might therefore be supposed that
long after the invention of a syllabic alphabet, it might have
served as a step to the invention of the other. But this
conjecture, though a natural one, seems not to be well
founded. The powerful mind that invented alphabetic writ-
ing could have derived but little assistance from so weak an
auxiliary — It would have been but an impediment to his
progress; and by furnishing him with the means, however
operose and unwieldy, of transmitting his verses to posterit3%
would have ^deprived him of the strongest incentive to the
attempt.

This, however, must remain a doubtful question : but it is
easy to perceive that in refining on the discovery of the
original inventor, other ingenious persons may have contribut-
ed additional letters if other sounds should be detected which
he had omitted to note; or adopting the principle and re-
jecting the characters, applied a new set of those arbitrary
signs to represent some other language with which they har-
monised better; while others may have formed a new ar-
rangement of the original characters, in support of some sys-
tem, or for the purpose of more easily instructing the ignor-
ant. Yet when we look over the generality of alphabets,
nothing like system or arrangement appears. Vovvels and
consonants, liquids and mutes — the representatives of every
sort of sound, whether labial, dental, palatine, or nasal, are

187

hustled together, without distinotion or order, apparently
as they issued at first from the brain that conceived them.
Nor would this be an unimportant observation, were we for-
tunate enough to possess many of the writings of the primi-
tive times : because it would furnish a test for discovering
the most ancient production in which alphabetic writing
was used, if it happened that such a production were still in
existence. For if on an analysis of the first lines of the
work into their elementary sounds, by the process which I
have endeavoured to describe, the characters r.epresehting
those sounds should arrange themselves in the order of the
alphabet — •! mean the alphabet of the language in which the
work was composed — little doubt, could remain, that alpha-
betic writing was used for the first time in recording that
very composition ; and was invented in the anxiety of its
author, to snatch from dissolution the perishable sounds of
which it consisted.

Such an expectation is not now to be entertained ; and
even if it might, the investigation could scarcely be desirable
except to a mere antiquarian. A similar remark, perhaps,
may be made upon the discussion that has already detained
us so long. — I have nothing to say in its defence. — It exam-
ines a question of mere idle curiosity; and is scarcely inter-
esting even to a few. — It is useless and unnecessary to any
purpose or end — unless, indeed, it may be supposed of ad-
vantage, to open a more favourable view of the powers of
the human mind, and that it shall be considered, not altoge-

188 .

ther fruitless or unserviceable to convince the unprejudiced,
even by a single instance, that the best and only mode
of overcoming similar difficulties, is to persuade our-
selves that they are not insurmountable; and to encounter
them by patient discrimination, and gradual, slow, and cir-
cumspect induction. — satisfied that it is unphilosophic, in-
considerate, and puerile to disentangle erery perplexity, by
resorting to miraculous interposition, where a little sagacity
will reduce the achievement to the exertions of that reason,
and those energies with which the Creator in his munificence
has endowed mankind.

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